


Kitchen Table

by JRizzla



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Scientific Advancements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-02-14 13:26:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2193483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JRizzla/pseuds/JRizzla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel leaves after their latest blow-out and fails to return, leaving a heartbroken Dean itching for closure. <br/>On Gabriel's advice, Dean's enlisting the help of big business magnate, Crowley, who assures him, with a self-satisfied smirk, that there is a way to retrieve Cas, but there are long term consequences to playing God.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning of The End.

Castiel has been sullenly and silently kissing cigarette filters for the better part of the evening. A chipped mug with only jagged stumps remaining in lieu of a handle sits nestled between his thighs, a crudely drawn devil printed on the ceramic proclaiming the owner a ' _sexy devil_ '; and Dean would allow himself a derisive snort, but doesn't think Cas would appreciate the reminder of his lingering presence; content to wallow in his own stifling, solitary atmosphere.

Dean feels like he's been blowing on sparks and damp kindling for months; where Cas was once upon a time fire and passion and all-consuming possession, it's all but burned out, and Dean's left to attempt a fumbling revival while Cas watches on, disinterested; vague and distant in a way that drains the sea water and storms from his eyes.

Their bathroom cabinet had been a study in unaddressed emotional decline; a collection of half-abandoned medication treating ambiguous symptoms that Cas doesn't care to discuss; eyes rimmed in twilight and charcoal saying, _"It's not important, Dean"._ But theirs has been a family plagued by misfortune and Dean would like to credit himself with recognising the signs. Cas, dedicating hours to cataloguing the changing colours of the sky from their living room window, lighting cigarette off of cigarette; Cas, restless in their bed, coveting the AM hours of the morning to twist bone-white knuckles in bed sheets and stare into the shadows like they owe him an explanation for this. Scratching at the pale skin of his wrists, head hanging, eyes unfocused and glassy as Dean offers brief anecdotes from his day in the office, allowing stretching silences for Cas to intervene should he feel the need to contribute. Eventually, those very same silences consumed and grew until there was no conversation left; just two people sitting over a kitchen table and a clock dutifully ticking out the moments it took for Cas to fall out of love.

Before the move, Dean had been spending hours at the agency, pouring every last ounce of waning enthusiasm into passive aggressive phone calls and pages and pages of repetitive paperwork, the vague notion of promotion and the very concept of ' _free time_ ' just out of reach. He would, under duress, figure himself relatively popular among his co-workers; he'd never before considered himself a ' _lonely_ ' person. But living with Cas felt like living in a void, sharing a space with a silent shadow, an emphasis on a growing familiarity with isolation. Asking questions to an empty room, tip-toeing around the black holes pin-wheeling in Cas' eyes.

A specific occasion springs to mind.

 

_An after-work party stretching into the small hours of the morning, celebrating some deal or other sealed over a phone call through which autopilot Dean bullied and manipulated his way with a client, channelling weeks of pent-up frustration into an unstoppable force of verbal persuasion. And he's the man of the hour, faceless handshakes and bleating voices of congratulations; a missed call from Sam flashing bright on his phone screen._

_Two._

_Three._

_He's killing the power and shoving the familial leash into his pocket, craving a few hours free of the stress interacting with Cas seems to inspire in him these days. And he has no doubt Sam's increasingly frequent calls can be sourced back to Cas; inevitably seething and sour and using Sam as the eloquent diplomat to their self-contained cold war._

_He's just barely reconsidering calling his brother back, or skipping the middle man all together and enduring Cas' specific brand of ruthless cold shoulder directly; but there's a hand on his shoulder, delicate fingers and manicured nails, a wave of chestnut silk sweeping into view, the sharp smell of incense, the high, forced laugh of a woman of intention. Bela's got jewels glittering around the tall, pale column of her throat, a harsh glint in her eye he's not sure isn't purely natural._

_Delicately combing a few stray strands behind her ear, she's saying,_ ''The SucroCorp deal, darling. Big fish," _a British lilt elongating her vowels, slurring her r's. Tracing a lacquered nail absent-mindedly across the harsh geometry of her collarbone, her eyes scan the bar,_ ''Big Boss Man must be so proud,'' _and Dean's following her gaze through stranger's silhouettes and designer cigarette smoke, Zachariah Adler perched on a stool, bug-eyed and glassy, a smug curl to his lips; catching Dean's eye and raising a glass in congratulations. Dean's offering a lazy two-finger salute in response, mumbling,_ ''What now?'' _and Bela's demonstrating that high-pitched, tinkling-bell laugh again, demurely hiding the gesture behind her fingertips._

''A well-deserved promotion, I'd imagine,'' _reaching for a tumbler of glittering amber liquid, eyes unfocused and narrowed,_  ''Dick Roman has been nothing if not a pain in my arse throughout this harrowing ordeal,''  _Kohl-rimmed eyes rolling exaggeratedly, glossy lips curling around the rim of her glass, Dean's shrugging non-committally, thoughts fuzzy, an ethanol fog seeping into his brain, his vision vignetting; but Bela's speaking again, fingernails tap-tapping against the glass cradled in her hands,_ ''A relocation to the big city,'' _she continues, and as always, her observational awareness proves on point, eyes swiftly shifting sideways to take in the way Dean deflates ever-so-slightly at the prospect, eyes falling to the scarred linoleum floor, cataloguing stains and scratches like the process of documenting will remove him from Bela's lazer-sharp focus, or the suggestion she frames so innocently, but fuels with so much cynicism,_ '"Perhaps a change is in order." _  
_

_It's a blatant reference to Castiel, who she'd encountered only briefly at some office gathering, watching intensely, thoroughly enthused as he and Dean had waged a whisper war in a secluded hallway, Cas storming out enraged immediately after, leaving Dean awkwardly deflecting questions as to his whereabouts for the rest of the evening._

_Dean doesn't miss the thinly veiled suggestion, takes offence on Cas' behalf and struggles to summon the energy to glare her direction, toxic eyes momentarily illuminated by something fiercely protective and hugely misplaced._ ''Cas hasn't been well lately,'' _and it sounds feeble and uninformed to his own ears, a man who built his career on the foundation of his persuasive prowess finds his own argument falling flat, Bela offering him a sympathetic look, something unpractised and awkward across the angles of her face._ ''Oh,'' _she's stating simply, gazing into the middle distance, corners of her pretty mouth pulling down in the unspoken argument._

_Dean arrives home in the still dark hours of morning, cloying scent of cigarette ash and jasmine clinging to clammy skin; eyes glazed, pupils blown wide and dark. He's awkwardly checking his phone to avoid eye contact with the rumpled silhouette of Cas curled unmoving in the corner of the sofa, paperback parapets flanking him on all sides, his last-minute defence efforts in the face of the oncoming verbal assault. He's wide awake, has been for days; modelling the sharp, hollowed look of someone growing intensely bored with themselves. His eyes are blue electricity and dry anger; he's saying, feigning disinterest,_ ''I tried calling you earlier,'' _stubbing out another cigarette, voice like gravel and broken glass,_ ''I didn't realise you were staying out late''.

_Dean's sitting down slowly, wary of spooking a cornered animal, speaking slow and calm and entirely condescending, but Cas' attentions are wrapped up in trembling hands and dime store lighters._

 

''Everything okay, Cas?''

 

_No response but for the incredulous widening of eyes and tilt of his head, the unspoken_  ''of course fucking not'' _clearly spelled out on the lines of tension keeping his body quaking. Slamming the Zippo against the tarnished wooden coffee table, the no man's land of this encounter, Cas is channelling shades of his former self tonight._

''You should have called,'' _he's saying simply, scratching fingers through already dishevelled hair._

_Dean thinks maybe if they were normal he'd offer up some joke about jealous house wife syndrome, but Cas is thoroughly uninterested in the cavalier charade; crumbles it with a glacial stare. Dean watching Cas watching Dean and silence reigns while the clock hanging accusingly over the kitchen table supervises proceedings with a condemning tick-tock anthem._

_Dean, these days, isn't afforded many opportunities to study Cas; he's too jittery, constant motion, a shark circling. His eyes closed, head tilted back, arm thrown over the back of the sofa, cigarette spilling swirls and spirals and angelic halos around his head. His skin is tight and pale, agitated around his eyes,_ (''Medicinal side effects, Dean. I'm fine. Really''). _Eyelashes like elaborate black lace, long and delicate and emphasising the waning colour in his cheeks. A smile curls the corner of his mouth, like he's reached a self-satisfying conclusion, an answer for whatever private truths plague him in the early hours of the morning._

''I'm not going to argue with you tonight, Dean,'' _he's saying, one last puff of his cigarette before stubbing it out on a hardback copy of the bible, coffee ring stains blooming sepia-toned flowers across the material. He's removing himself from his corduroy throne, shambling his way towards the bedroom, throwing a meaningful glance over his shoulder, ice skies lost in the harsh shadow of the hallway. All that white marble skin, the geometric intricacy the bare bulb paints across his face; modern art boasting strict instructions to please, do not handle._

_This piece is fragile._

_And Dean's trying not to focus on why Cas insists on punctuating each sentence with the formal pronouncement of his name, a constant desire for reassurance that they are, in fact, speaking face to face, that this thing festering between them has yet to destroy them. That for now, they continue to exist in each other's space._

_Later, Dean pretends to be asleep when Cas extracts himself from between their sweat-stained bed sheets, watches him fumble through their clothing flung about the room; hanging from cupboard doors, curtain rails and ceiling fans like wild vines. He's counting the notches of his spine, throwing brutal shadows like dinosaur spines across his back. There's poppy coloured bruises blossoming along his shoulder blades, visible like inky fingerprints in the dark; evidence of a deeply subconscious desire for possession that Cas inspires in him these nights when he climbs into his lap in the dark, licking at his jaw line until the hair's breadth between love and violence is rubbed raw and blurred; Cas' mouth a startling scarlet stain in the gloom, working shiny and spit-slick, singing praise for Dean's calloused hands, a harsher touch; sinking teeth into the skin of Cas' neck._

_And maybe Dean hummed Hallelujah to the sweat-soaked valley between Cas' shoulder blades, but the answering gasp of_ ''Amen'' _does not go unheard._

''You not coming to bed?'' _Dean's mumbling from beneath his arm, feigning the sleep that slurs his voice, and Cas, to his credit, barely hesitates; reaching for a tiny plastic pill container on his bedside stand, clutching it too tightly in a white-knuckled grasp, shrugging casually an,_ ''I'm not tired''.

_Dean let's it slide, let's Cas carry out all the evidence to the contrary and smuggle it to whatever safe space he seeks refuge in when the very idea of sharing a bed with Dean sets insects crawling beneath his skin. And just as Cas is crossing the threshold, AC/DC shirt hanging limp from his thinning frame, Dean is driven through with a spike of anxiety; the thoughts of Cas walking out and leaving for good._

_He's sitting bolt upright in bed, eyes unfocused in the warm dark of their room, he's addressing the silhouette turned to watch his sudden outburst, an unexpected display of intimate emotion._ ''Hey Cas,'' _he's saying, awkward and hesitant, sees Cas' throat bob with a thick swallow,_  ''Do you still -'' _and maybe he would have said_ 'love me', _more likely some bastardised version of  sentimentality rapidly disguised by bravado and awful jokes, but Cas interrupts to answer,_  ''Yes, Dean'' _and his words may be civil and polite, but his posture is telling a multitude of different stories, none of which reach the offered conclusion._

_Dean can't sleep for the sound of the clock over the kitchen table drumming it's vicious tattoo._

 

Tonight is not to be one of those nights, Cas isn't feeling particularly generous with his hands. Or thoughts. Or feelings or even an offered indication that, yes, he's aware of Dean's looming presence; consciously ignoring the sensation of being watched; slow, deep inhale of cigarette smoke, he's letting the crystal blue glaze over, neck unable to support the weight of his head, nor the typhoon of inexpressible sentiments rattling around inside.

Dean's making his way slowly across the polyester wasteland spread between them, a riddled minefield of awkward emotional confessions and cutting questions, cardboard gravestones standing sentinel over the scene, cigarette light sunset glowing in the distance, perched between Cas' thumb and forefinger, coffee cup parapets and the halo glow of his phone setting the mood.

Dean's sitting opposite, hands pressed tight between his thighs, reluctant to interfere with Cas' self-imposed vagrancy, the empty take-out boxes, a dust-fall off ash clinging to his hair. _''You gonna pack away some of these books, man?''_ he's asking, eyes scanning the various stacks growing like weeds among the debris of their move, and he loathes the way he sounds, cautious and wary, approaching Cas like something volatile, a violent animal, a ticking time bomb of emotional repression, but he's struggling to find a way to engage, despite a desperate desire to do so.

It's not unusual to find him sitting silent, head bowed, draped in the figurative funeral shroud, mourning people he's never met, homesick for places he's never been, plagued by and prone to fits of melancholy that see him retreating to their bedroom for days, offering a feeble string of increasingly incoherent excuses and apologies each time.

In these instances, sitting silently opposing one another, Dean concludes he is the worst thing to have ever possibly happened to Castiel Novak, heaping already slumped shoulders with the pressure of existing as a contributing aspect of somebody else's life. But leaving Cas is not one simple physical action; it's thoroughly scraping out beneath his nails, where he drives them through hips and thighs, a constellation of half-moons and bruise coloured galaxies gathering evidence beneath Cas' clothes. It's a chemical bath of stripping through layer after layer of his own skin to reach something Cas' mouth hasn't kissed, Cas' words haven't cut. It's the fine art of excavating the swirling imprint of each fingertip where Cas has made his home under hands too eager to please.

Cas is moving sluggish and weary, waking from a metaphysical coma; glances briefly at the haphazard paperback towers, before turning those high-beam blues on Dean, fixated on his mouth, reluctant to meet his eyes. _''Maybe''_   he's saying, a trained response, ambiguous and non-committal, a loose shrug accompaniment. Fingertips fidgeting with the delicate leaves of rolling papers, the curling brown of residual tobacco caught under jagged fingernails, Dean's thinking maybe their conversations would flow a lot smother if Cas didn't have to frame his words against clenched teeth and the cigarette perpetually perched between his lips.

Dean finds himself mentally exhausted after these exchanges, a constant struggle to quell and quiet a million different urges and inquiries as to how Cas is feeling; he doesn't think his partner would appreciate the unwarranted assault on his emotional Achilles heel. But the Super 8 reel of their early years plays projected on his eyelids whenever he finds time to shut them, painful reminders that itch and burn beneath his skin; Cas' megawatt smile, all lingering touches and intense eye contact, brilliant blue and healthy blush.

 

_Dean had first encountered Cas through his then neighbour, the incorrigible Pamela Barnes; a page three, leather-wrapped wet dream with a passion for scented candles and the occult._

_Dean's arriving home from what had threatened to be an overnight office stay, bruise coloured smudges beneath his eyes, shirt a tapestry of coffee stains and sweat. He's fumbling his apartment keys in clumsy fingers when Pamela's voice interrupts, supporting her door frame with a tattooed shoulder, deft hands expertly shuffling a deck of cards back and forth between them._

''Hard day at the office?'' _she's purring, hazel-green blinking bright in the dimly lit hallway. Dean scoffs, ceaselessly flustered under Pamela's intimate methods of interrogation. She's exaggeratedly cocking her hip, elbow propped against the soft curve, clutched between polished fingers, a spread of battered, dog-eared cards; she's smiling a Cheshire cat grin, and Dean's not feeling mentally prepared for her specific brand of sinister mischievousness. Eyes raking his silhouette, she's taking in the dishevelled appearance, the six-pack clutched between fingers blackened by ink and motor oil, smirking coy and confident,_ ''You're going to kill yourself, kid,'' _she's saying, a tilt of her head gesturing to the paper fan flourish from her fingers,_  ''Pick one''.

_Dean's awkwardly manoeuvring his groceries to the floor, eyes scrunched in wearied concentration, fingers stiffly picking through the numerous keys glittering on the chain, mumbling,_ ''You have no idea,'' _glancing over his shoulder at her enduring silence, in these moments entirely suspicious of Pamela's repeated claims to possess psychic abilities._

_Her lips curl up at the corners, eyes shifting once more to the cards, back to Dean, brow climbing in expectancy. Rolling his eyes in dramatic over-exaggeration, opting to humour her silent insistence, he's flicking his fingernail against the thin plastic coated-paper,_ ''This one''.

_Pamela's elegant features morph and wrinkle in intense concentration, rapidly reshuffling her cards to have Dean's selection resting on top, a wide range of expressions cycling across her face as she considers the clutched card and all it's implications, and Dean's asking,_ ''What are you doing standing out here anyway?'', _but she's cutting her hand through the air, a wordless demand for cooperative silence, nodding once more as though reaching a climactic point in her internal debate, tilting bright eyes back to Dean's face and smiling like the poster-child for innocence._ ''Waiting on my ten o'clock,'' _she says simply._

_Pamela had previously (doe-eyed and soft under the influence of a few too many drinks) confessed herself an expert alternative healer; many an unusual client knocking on her door at strange hours of the night claiming referrals from individuals rarely qualified in the field of medicine. Dean never thought to question her late night antics, her unusual working hours, preferring instead to consciously avoid the ill will of a near six-foot, Amazonian-built psychic with a pair of steel-capped boots specifically named,_ 'The Ball-Breakers'.

_Dean's mouth shapes a silent_ ''ah'' _of feigned understanding, preferring ignorance in matters regarding Pamela's appointments. He's jamming the next key on the ring into the lock, attention elsewhere, uncomfortable under her sharp scrutiny, but the victorious click of the bolt as it turns sends a wash of relief over him; an opportunity for escape, the noise usually indicating an end to their hallway pleasantries, an audible_ 'full stop' _to indicate Dean's retreat._

_Crouching to collect his scattered possessions, Pamela opts to venture off-script, ignoring all established previous routine, overlooking her own rules in favour of betraying patient privilege._

''Nice guy,'' _she's saying, speaking to the spider-webs tracing dust trails across the ceiling, eyes falling closed, dark hair curling and swaying about her shoulders as she fans herself with Dean's card._

''Castiel,'' _she offers without any suggestion of context, eyes white fire as she turns them on Dean at his answering silence, his nose scrunched in confusion._

_Unfurling from her languid lean, card still fluttering between fingers bedecked in heavy silver and glittering stones, she's gently shoving at his shoulder, a musical laugh accompaniment,_  ''His name. Silly.''

_Dean's silently repeating it under his breath, baffled; the shapes uncomfortable and unfamiliar on his mouth, brow climbing ever higher into his hairline as he considers the type of parent who would condemn their child to such a bizarre name._

_With one foot frozen over the threshold to his apartment, Pamela opts to offer more, interrupting his actions through such an abrupt, stilted conversation, Dean's beginning to grow increasingly paranoid of her intentions, recognising an effort to stall for time, having witnessed his incompetent subordinates attempt it several times daily at the office._

''Cute smile,'' _she's sighing, eyes distant and dreamy, a pining damsel routine she is completely unaccustomed too, but she soldiers on, regardless. A woman on a mission._  ''And he's got these eyes-'' _but Dean has had a long day, his patience a shield worn thin throughout, and despite nursing a particular fondness for Pamela's eccentricities, he would much prefer to be alone, making significant headway in his descent into alcoholism, just like Daddy._

''Pam, why are you telling me this?'' _a tired enquiry, words escaping on a sigh, eyes closed in controlled frustration. He hears the rustle of old leather and torn denim, chancing a glance sideways to see her shift again, brazen smirk still situated firmly in place. She's nodding subtly, indicating the elevators humming their monotone mechanical symphony at the end of the corridor._  ''Because he's behind you, kiddo,'' _her sentence perfectly punctuated by the tell-tale chime of doors opening._

_Pamela Barnes proves a woman of her word, and sure, maybe Cas wasn't smiling at the time (rarely does at all, any more), and he certainly did have eyes, just like she had promised before his over-eager interruption, but Dean's attentions are drawn to other aspects of his person; his odd gait, favouring his left; exceptionally delicate on his right (which Dean would later come to understand as being the result of an old military injury, particularly agitated by the bruising winter weather the city was enduring at the time.), the repetitious curling and unfurling of fists by his sides; attempting to break a bad habit by indulging in a monotonous pattern of distraction, the outline of a pack of cigarettes protruding from his jeans pocket. His hair a windswept mess of bird's nests and spider legs, eyes the colour of glaciers and Windex and blue blood veins pumping too close to the surface. He offers a restrained, close-mouthed smile in Dean's direction, only a slight stutter in the constant motion of his hands, probably unnoticeable had Dean not been hungrily indulging his curiosity._

_Pamela raises two fingers to her temple, offering a lazy salute._

''Castiel,'' she's _announcing, by way of greeting; tongue curling to lick at teeth in an overemphasised exotic pronunciation, harsh T's, curling L's, and Dean's thinking perhaps once upon a time the sight would have inspired a quiver in his knees, but currently, he is thoroughly invested in his scrutiny of this rumpled outsider._

_Pamela's introduction is lost to focus, but Castiel's raising his hand, slow and disinterested, calloused fingers curl from sandpaper palms in invitation; Dean's attempting to re-situate his groceries on the jut up his hip, flustered, thrusting a hand at Cas, admittedly over-eager, but Pamela says nothing, offering a slight, encouraging nod; the way one would reassure a child taking it's first steps, uneasy and unsteady, and he presumes that this is probably exactly what that moment would come to represent._

_Deceptively simple baby steps leading down the yellow dirt road of a turbulent relationship, a cowardly lion seeking courage, and a tin-man without a heart._

_Cas mumbles an incomprehensible greeting, falling flat at the dusty toe caps of his boots; A vague nod of acknowledgement, a smile like an angry crack in a porcelain face, jagged and harsh at it's edge. Pamela's clapping her hands together, the exclamation point to a waning attempt at conversation. Reaching an arm across Cas' shoulders, shepherding him through her doorway, Dean recognises her reluctance to lay hands on her patient, hands hovering useless by his shoulders, emphasised as Cas turns those violent blue eyes on her in narrowed caution, but she's ushering him regardless, beaming smile like spotlights and Hollywood turned on Dean left standing sentinel in the hallway, baffled by the brief encounter._

_She's reaching to push the door closed behind her, Cas already dissolving into the darkened, candlelit interior, but Dean still has one question beating behind his teeth._

''Wait!'' _a harsh whisper, suddenly plagued by spontaneous self-consciousness, reluctant to allow Castiel an opportunity to overhear._

_Pamela hesitates to indicate she's listening, eyes still turned to her apartment,_ ''What's up with the cards,'' _he's lifting a hand loaded with cardboard files and crinkled paperwork to lamely point at the deck still clutched within her tinsel-draped fist. Reacting as though she's surprised to find them there, Pamela's mouth shapes a pretty '_ o _' of surprise, raising the plastic-coated cards to reassess them, she simply corrects,_  ''They're Tarot'', _moving to return to her apartment before once again hesitating, fingertips stained yellow from years of smoking a pack a day, she's peeling the top card from the deck, his card, offering it face down to a sceptical looking Dean, eyeing it cautiously, like a snake coiled in the palm of her hand._

_And as Pamela came to understand throughout their years as neighbours, Dean frequently had to be told twice, so thoroughly unsure of himself, self-confidence crushed, she has no doubt, by a strong paternal presence in his life, a suspicion for which she received an astounding amount of supporting evidence, despite having only met John Winchester once._

_She presents it again, more urgency in her movement, eager to return to Castiel. Dean gingerly accepts, slowly raising the card to squint at the elaborate design in the dimly lit hallway, bare bulb flickering in tandem with his baffled blinks._

_Her door creaks as she closes it, but not without her parting words, pointing a finger at the card perched between Dean's thumb and forefinger._

''How fitting,'' _she's saying,_ ''The Lovers''.

 

The very same card is currently decorating their fridge, wedged beneath a gaudy tourist magnet emblazoned _'San Francisco'_ , courtesy of Sam and his country-wide adventures; and while Cas has never understood the sentiments behind it, reluctant to inquire as Dean had never been forthcoming with an explanation with regards it's sudden appearance and apparent emotional value, Dean himself regularly brushes fingers across it, almost absent-mindedly, with an inexplicably nostalgic fondness, a faint smile across his mouth.

 

_The day he and Cas had finally managed to pack their lives into a measly pile of crumpled cardboard boxes, Pamela had knocked on their door, hair frizzled and haywire, dark-rimmed eyed suddenly too wide for her face._

_Dean had heard her identifying low purr dwindle in it's rich baritone as an inexplicable and uncharacteristic urgency seemed to take hold of her, Cas' grave tone heard attempting to reason with her. Luckily Dean had managed to interrupt before she was forced to lay hands on Castiel in order to pass him, but upon seeing Dean, a familiarity relights in her eyes, a sigh of relief escaping her lips, and he can't help but feel uneasy that she so crucially needed reassurance that he was in fact okay._

_She presses passed Castiel, who looks inconvenienced by her badly timed arrival, but remains oblivious to the steel in her eyes as she standoffishly bustles by._

''Heya Kiddo,'' _she's saying, grasping his hands between hers, and he feels the plastic-coated card before she addresses it, focused on maintaining intense eye contact as if to emphasise ever word she offers after, nodding her head encouragingly to punctuate each syllable._

''Put this in your wallet,'' _her palms are sweaty, Cas' eyes narrow in suspicion; she leans closer, the confident liquid chocolate returning to her voice,_ ''This is the only card you're ever gonna need''.

 

Dean's studying the intricate lines of the artwork currently, touching fingertips across it's worn surface, Cas clears his throat behind him from the depths of the living room; and the sound crushes Dean's teeth together, irritation tightening his fists. The constant battle of measuring Castiel's ups and downs, the volume of his darkness, attempting to accommodate something so huge and enveloping in their private life; the black hole spiralling beneath Cas ribcage, feeding on conversation and intimacy and the stilted looks they gradually became.

Cas has the perfect face for a collapsing star.

The whole scientific process weighs on Dean, sucking at his top teeth now, and nothing specific has happened to bring on this melancholic state, but in the context of their silent apartment, the vacuum existing between them is laughably blatant.

Remembering military strategy and theory his father had proudly lectured over the 8-track as the Impala tore down some back road, Dean chubby, small and sticky-fingered, a concentration of kinetic energy perched beside Daddy in the front seat; he's struggling to recall, eventually concluding guerilla tactics as the most effective way to tear through Cas' carefully maintained defences, a sucker-punch of verbal accusation and a hasty retreat, Cas' own preferred methods adapted and utilized against him.

Dean understands distance is important, holding steady in the kitchenette, aware that Cas has eyes that work in magnetism and distraction, has hands that move in the peripheral to trace patterns across knuckles and cheeks and mouths that seal shut in protest. Cas has refined the art of avoidance, viciously protects himself and the few genuine emotions he has left festering away in his chest.

Dean is saying, _''What's going on, man?''_ , words weighted by sleepless nights and an inexplicable sense of disappointment, in himself, or the failings of their five year long relationship, he can't be sure; prefers not to dwell on it, further fuelled by the minute shrug of slumped shoulders; Cas tapping out another cigarette against the tabletop, fingers pressed against his temple. _''I haven't been feeling well lately,''_   he says simply.

And Dean realises there will always be a canyon between them, a dividing crack brimming with the misunderstandings and misconceptions Dean bears with regards the finer nuances of Cas' depressive episodes, but he hates that Cas so easily resorts to using it as a crutch to explain his drifting, his lack of enthusiasm and commitment to their relationship. Often he thinks maybe there's a medium ground, between the low-lows and unpredictable manic states where Cas is still in love with him, uncharted territory they have yet to uncover.

Cas' hair is dull and dirty, face pale and drawn. The blinds haven't been pulled in days, throwing warped patterns across the walls that Cas will sit in suffocating silence and decipher in wide-eyed fascination. Dean recognises the lows a lot more easily these days.

'' _I mean, what's going on with us,''_   he's saying, voice dipping in discomfort, feeling petty and ashamed that he felt need to broach the topic, that his insecurity far outmatched the confusing, dulled mesh of emotion Cas is forced to endure. He waves his hand uselessly between them, an indication to Cas, should he have forgotten, that he is currently speaking to the man he once claimed adoration for.

Cas is shifting in his seat, reaching across the coffee table for his phone, the blue light emphasising the deep hollows of his cheeks, the pits beneath his eyes, and the lack of light therein. Fingers tap-tapping across the screen the only sound, an uneven rhythm Dean's matching against his heart beating violent in his chest. Cas still has the phone clutched in a tight fist when he stands to address Dean, eyes still wandering, jumping from point to point in the room. Not once does their journey allow him a momentary look at Dean's face, and Dean's musing that maybe if they had made that connection, the conversation would have proceeded differently.

Cas models a perpetual state of agitation, clothes rumpled, hair a disarrayed mess, standing, hunched like a predator across an obstacle course of second-hand furniture. Blue-white ice chips glinting in the deep cavities of his eyes, Dean still can't find it in him to quench the barest instinct of attraction to a being so far beyond his understanding, something ethereal.

_''Nothing,''_   Cas is saying cautiously, voice rising at the end in subconscious questioning. His shoulders relax slightly, the threat of electric storms in the atmosphere of this abruptly too tiny room does not go unnoticed by either occupant.

_''Nothing. Really, man?''_   a disbelieving echo, _''Are you fucking kidding me?''_ , and the urge to indulge in a drink is pushing it's way to the forefront of his mind, but he's been sober for five years, discounting a hiccup here and there, usually preceding an incident with Castiel and his volatile temper.

_''You think this is normal?''_ a vague sweeping gesture indicating their surroundings, a movement Cas follows lazily, posture relaxed into a slouch, already mentally checking out from the argument, much to Dean's increased agitation.

_''You think this how normal people live?''_   he's spluttering, composure draining with every word, genuine confusion as to whether or not Cas has experienced much of his life existing as a ' _normal_ ' person, wary now, fully experiencing the sensation of walking on thin ice, and this could go either way.

Cas is taking moments to dissect the accusation, his face relaxing, creases woven into his skin thinning out, throwing himself back into his hunched position, praying at the altar of self-abuse, cigarette candlestick glowing in holy worship. This is his withdrawal from the conversation, only the illusion of high-ground exists under these circumstances, and they are both equally at fault.

_''Normal people?''_ he questions eventually, smoke seeping from between his lips, eyes fixated on the glowing point, a burning beacon in the dim light. He's blinking slow and sensual, and Dean feels that magnetism having it's effect, his feet carrying him closer to the sofa, manoeuvring himself to be in Cas' field of vision, not that it matters, not that he ever looks.

Cas is bating him, he's fully aware. Cas wants to hear him assign a title to this haphazard thing they've cultivated between them. Five years spent wrapped in the intensity of each other's company, Cas had met his parents, for fuck sake, but he still remains reluctant to confine what they've managed to contain as a solitary _'term'_. Doesn't know whether it's due to his own insecurity, or a calculated decision to not force commitment on Cas; flighty, runaway Cas.

_''You know what I mean,''_   he's sighing, a tone of apology, but lacking the verbal sentiments, and Cas huffs out a laugh around the damp filter pressed between his lips. _''Try, 'normal **couples** '',_ he's saying, reaching to remove the cigarette from his mouth, _''or how about 'partners'',_ peeling himself from the sofa, making his way towards Dean, stalking like a predator, _''Sweethearts,''_  he continues, ticking each title off on his fingers as he perseveres, determined, eyes rolled up in feigned concentration.

Dean's flashing him a warning glare, but it's implications are lost. He's closer now, within arm's reach and closer still, slightly shorter than Dean, eyes dipped to fully observe his mouth, strictly forbidding eye contact. _''If you're feeling brave,''_   he's saying, fingertips playing staccato along Dean's shoulders, breath hitching, _''You could try 'lovers''.  
_

And Dean is very nearly lured to the _'X'_ , Cas dragging his teeth along his bottom lip in his exaggerated pronunciation, holding the _'S'_ as he leans close to Dean's mouth, eyes flickering open for only a split second, but the lack of warmth and cruel intention seen there is enough to make Dean re-evaluate the situation, his refusal to indulge being a circumstance Cas is rarely face with.

Dean's retreating to the safety of the kitchenette, wringing his knuckles and palpably furious at Cas' diversion attempts.

_''We're not talking about me, Cas,''_ he's saying, waver in his voice; process of elimination leaving a wounded Cas staring at his feet. Dean's licking at his teeth again, deep inhale through his nose, keeping his temper in check; a violent hand-me-down from John.

Cas glances up, eyes fixed on Dean's throat, too cowardly to venture further; and for the first time in weeks, there's a heat in his eyes, warm and wounded and at a loss for how to navigate the delicate topic, and Dean doesn't think he's devious enough to use this to his advantage.

His faces fall away, all the falsities and avoidance, and Cas looks entirely lost and too small among the fallout. He opens his mouth, but reconsiders, a slight shrug indicating his resignation to silence. And Dean huffs out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding, excited at the prospect of Cas confessing, but realising an apology is not forthcoming, he's losing the will to continue the argument.

His entire life, Dean feels he's been denied things, vaguely remembers pleading with his mom as a child, petulantly demanding her attention, stubborn insistence that the addition of a baby brother would just be an unnecessary nuisance for both of them; but inevitably, along came Sam, who wormed his way beneath Dean's skin in the way only an irritating little brother can. He's recalling an argument from his late teens, pleading uselessly with his father, begging for an opportunity to work at Uncle Bobby's garage, John instantly silencing him with his booming declaration of _''Enough!''_ , explaining in a patronizing, parental tone, why a job at the agency would be a far more lucrative opportunity; how it would be a good idea for Dean to start learning some responsibility. And More recently, Cas.

Something he loves, but something that does not love him.

Not any more.

Tick-Tock.

Holding on to Cas is no more effective than trying to hold the ocean in his hands. Both vast and blue and unbridled.

In hindsight, the idea of trying to contain a force of nature within four walls was a terrible decision.

_''C'mon Cas,''_   he's saying, voice soft, wounded, _''Castiel,''_ he corrects, a rarely used formality between them.

Castiel is chancing a glance up, painfully slow, a sandpaper drag of focus along his body. And Dean hates himself for sounding so pathetic and needy, so desperate to hear Cas say something redeeming.

He's aware he very rarely uses the _'L'_   word, it's usage had been limited to a question Castiel had posed to him during their first few months together, a phrase that became a recurring ' _thing_ ' for them. An _'A-okay'_   signal.

Cas, who despite his own actions had a very limited tolerance for the emotional procrastination of others, noticing Dean's own apprehensiveness with regards any topic that strayed too far into _'relationship'_ territory, had challenged him with the deceptively soft question, _''Do you love me?''_

Dean poses it now, a little more barbed, a lot more relying on the response. Cas tilts his head up, settling into the old comfort of that intense eye contact, and Dean loathes the way it coils in his stomach, tunnel vision with a deep blue ending; the weight of Cas' stare equivalent to the bends.

He's shifting his weight, adjusting to the discomfort, to the lingering silence Cas has yet to interrupt; his brows scrunching, eyes squinting in fury, appalled to have his own weapon turned on him.

When Cas does deign to offer him a response, it's in barely restrained anger, eyes closed off, disconnected once again from the scene around them, he's struggling for an even tone, saying, _''I need some time,''_   nodding to himself as though the request is perfectly reasonable, not like Dean's waiting for the hangman to pull the lever, he's considering, saying, _''I'm going to Gabriel's.''_

Big brother, Gabriel Novak, a man who seemed to exist in a constant state of manic indulgence, a polar opposite to Castiel, although both were prone to the same methods of avoiding the reality of responsibility and restraint.

Dean himself had very little patience for Gabriel and his antics, found his personality thoroughly grating, but the first morning Cas had refused to move from the bed, curled tight in the foetal position, eyes watery and vacant; Dean had panicked, flicking through Cas' mobile and dialling Gabriel, the first Novak he happened across, attempting to remain calm and explain the situation.

 

_''It's Cas, I can't move him. I don't know what's wrong.''_

 

_Gabriel had arrived at the door, only a little flustered to his credit, a blush high on his cheeks; shoving his way through Dean, despite the apparent disadvantage of his height._

_Standing, arms flung open among the settling dust of the latest argument, his eyebrows climb to his hairline, expectant and unimpressed, awaiting explanation, and indication as to where his brother might be._

_Dean had led him silently to the bedroom door, irrationally intimidated by this pocket-sized stranger he'd only ever encountered in Cas' brief retelling of bizarre childhood incidents, most of which were initiated by Gabriel himself._

_Leaning against the door frame, arms folded, hooded-hazel eyes tracing Cas' vulnerable form curled quiet among a nest of sweat-soaked sheets, Gabriel only spares Dean a passing glance, before his attentions refocus on his little brother, reassessing the situation, a calculating look on his face._

_The shades are still drawn, a rogue beam of light cutting through the darkness, painting an abstract masterpiece across the plains of Cas' back. Sheets tangle in a damp mess around his hips, clutched between his fists, white-knuckled and clammy. He is naked in both a metaphorical and physical sense, and the judgemental glare Gabriel sends Dean's direction indicates that those blossoming bruise-coloured kisses along his shoulder blades might as well be footprints in snow for their lack of subtlety._

_Gabriel doesn't turn to address him, demanding_ ''And who are you?'' _of the dark depths of the bedroom. Dean, unaware of just how much of his personal life Castiel allows his family access too, simply offers his name, terrified that this detached trance is his fault. Gabriel, however, seems satisfied by the response, eyes (that most certainly aren't the electric blue hue of Cas') softening only slightly at the introduction. He doesn't bother with the formalities himself, instead nodding towards the effectively paralysed form of his little brother, limp and immovable, saying,_  ''Listen, Bucko, you gotta give me some time alone with him''.

_Dean had dutifully returned to the living room, so intensely distracted by Cas' behaviour, the difficulty of communicating with someone so wholly vacant, the panic of being unable to wake him that morning, that he cannot find it in himself to go about his day like he would any other, remembering to turn his phone off, but not before dialling in for leave, citing a_ 'family emergency' _as his reason, the impact of which is not lost on him._

_The day passes in a blur of stressed pacing, and by late afternoon, Gabriel has yet to make a reappearance, his soft murmuring audible from the back room. Cas' responses are limited and low, throat filled with steel wool, voice grated and harsh. Gabriel's monologue continues well into the evening, the slice of sunlight previously illuminating the room gradually fading to shadow and vanishing entirely. Dean finds himself relocating to the door way, emotionally drained to the point of numbness, fighting back the feeling of utter worthlessness for the sake of checking-in on Cas' well-being._

_Gabriel sits on the edge of the bed, twisted to rub a comforting hand along the ridges of Cas' spine. His voice is a quiet rumble in the stillness, Cas' face still shrouded in shadows, it's not immediately apparent whether or not he's even awake to hear Gabriel's quiet reassurance._

_It's an intimate moment shared between brothers, and Dean has never had the honour of touching Cas like that, a soothing, familiar gesture; in contrast, their encounters are limited to violence and lust and extremes that Castiel does not seem capable of when curled and exposed on the bed, crumpled in on himself like burning paper withdrawing from the flames._

_Gabriel's removing himself from the bed, fingertips trailing along the length of Castiel's exposed arm, impish features twisted in unhappiness, gesturing for Dean to lead the way to some place more private, somewhere Gabriel can interrogate him and try and make some sense of the situation._

_Gently closing the bedroom door behind him, the protesting creak obviously not enough to disturb the semi-conscious Castiel, Gabriel is immediately measuring up against Dean, his smaller stature having no negative influence on his imposing nature._  ''Listen, guy. I don't know anything about you, and Cassie in there is in no state to be vouching for you,'' _and so unlike his brother, Gabriel maintains hard eye contact throughout, breaking it only to warily eye the door between them, as though Cas, overhearing, would heave himself from his cotton cocoon against his brother's instructions and accuse him of coddling him._

_His eyes shift around their surroundings, catching on Cas' coat flung across the back of the sofa, his tie hanging from the handle of the storage cupboard; he doesn't bother questioning the lead-up, the prologue to Castiel's current state of unresponsiveness, instead, prying his phone from the pocket of his jeans, click-clacking away at the keypad with an inconsideration and lack of urgency Dean would later come to understand stemmed from the fact that Gabriel was not unaccustomed to these intrusions in his own life, uncomfortably familiar with Cas' self-destructive routines._

_Phone to his ear, placing a hand over the mouthpiece, he's saying to Dean,_ ''He can't stay here, man. I need a hand getting him out to the car'', _jutting a thumb over his shoulder, silently suggesting Dean get a move on while he finishes out his call._

_Dean hovers at the door frame, unwilling to crack the bubble of silence that seems to have descended here. Cas is folded like elegant origami, eyes staring blankly at the opposite wall, their colour unidentifiable in the blanket of darkness; his only movement the imperceptible rise and fall of his chest._

_He's ringing his knuckles in concerned distraction when Gabriel returns, slapping a hand against Dean's shoulder, only vaguely threatening in it's unspoken warnings. He manoeuvres himself through the doorway, passing the 6 foot, stone sentinel Dean had become, an obstacle in his own apartment, watching the scene unfold before with the kind of fascinated disconnect he often finds himself drifting into while watching TV, an unreality existing for his own morbid curiosity._

_Gabriel's hunched by the bedside, carefully negotiating Castiel's puppet-like limbs, heaving him into a seated position and rubbing at his back, quiet mumblings of reassurance, leaning too close together for Dean to decipher any individual words, but Cas is nodding, face devoid of emotion, eyes staring but not seeing; gazing far beyond the limited reality of Dean's shitty apartment._

_Gabriel's hauling him to his feet, sheets pooling in a mass of folds by his ankles, and if his little brother's nudity bothers him, Gabriel shows no indication, laying a palm on either side of Cas' face, staring hard into eyes that peer right on through._

_Without looking to Dean, he's barking orders again, nodding his head at the spread of sheets across the floor, saying,_ ''Get that will you?''. _Dean, still unsure of his status with this pint-size powerhouse, slips into old habits of wilful obedience, draping the off-white sheets around Cas' shoulders with a cautious reverence that Gabriel's sharp eyes do not overlook,_ ''My girlfriend said she'd pull the car around,'' _he's saying to no one in particular, and Dean's holding the bedroom door open, Gabriel gently ushering Cas through; a linen-wrapped, shambling zombie and Dean's wondering hazily where all the fire and fury from last night had disappeared too._

_Had Castiel blazed up and burnt out silently, only inches away from a slumbering Dean, from an emotional rescue, choosing instead to dwindle in secrecy._

_The Car that screeches to a stop by the entrance is sleek and black and boasts a wealth and class Dean can't imagine Gabriel dabbling in. The driver, a stoic woman, eyes like burning coal, arms draped in thick gold loops and chains; remains resolutely silent, watching the scene with an abstract curiosity through her rear-view mirror, saying nothing of the aggressive treatment Gabriel inflicts on her car, flinging the door open, deaf to it's screeches of protest as he delicately lays his baby brother across the expansive back seat, pushing back the clinging strands of hair from skin pale and clammy._

_Gabriel's turning accusing eyes on Dean, lingering in his peripheral, saying,_  ''I don't know enough about you too to give you shit over all this,'' _face crinkling in discomfort as he looks for the right choice of words, scratching idly at the back of his neck, eyes searching anywhere and everywhere for the answer._

''If this is going to be a thing,'' _emphasis on the last word, the accompanying air quotations, and Dean's not sure whether he's referring to last night's adventures, or this morning's state of vacancy, but he nods obediently. Gabriel seems satisfied with the slight gesture, continuing artlessly, saying,_ ''You gotta learn to work with him, man.''

_It's ambiguous enough that it ticks several boxes on the_  'overly-concerned big brother check-list', _and Dean should know, he himself has indulged it several times to interfere in Sammy's personal life; but as the car pulls away from the curb, he finds himself silently resolving to be far more effective than just acting as middle-man to what became a reoccurring trend within their relationship; Cas' darkening moods, Gabriel's willingness to abandon his own routine and immerse himself in Cas' stormy disposition, eager to offer assistance._

_There has always been something deceptively tender in the relationship between the two brothers, Cas seeking a comfort there that Dean seems incapable of offering._

 

Tonight is no different, Castiel slamming the door behind him, the kitchen clock tick-tock metronome to the beat of his footsteps as he storms down the hallway.

Dean, exhausted, throws himself onto the sofa, cradling his head in his hands, hair bristling against his palms; wondering how to make this work, speculating that the only non-functioning aspect of this well-oiled machine is whatever is beating away deep beneath the cosmic hollow nestled in Cas' chest.

Cas' phone, abandoned in his urgency to leave, vibrates occasionally against the tabletop, Dean too weary to check the caller ID, even now, reluctant to invade Cas' carefully maintained privacy.

Hours go by, as told by the ticking clock, and Dean finds himself occupying a space between memory and reality, fondly entertaining memories of a time when he and Cas could bear function as a unit.

When his own phone rings, it's well into the AM, eyes blurry and unfocused as he attempts to pick out the letters of Gabriel's name against the blinding back light.

_''Gabe?''_   he's croaking, confused, presuming their interaction had been limited to their Cas-centric rescue operations.

_''Dean,''_ and he sounds panicked; Dean heaving himself forward to the edge of the sofa, fully alert now, unused to hearing Gabriel out of sorts.

_''Dean, what did you do?!''_

In hindsight, he thinks maybe he should have recognised this as the precursor for worse to come.


	2. Puppet Face and his Shiny Mouth.

_Dean's sitting stooped on a staircase, each second he spends scowling into his scotch reducing the property value by precious zeroes. The entrance hall, a study in white alabaster and sullen portraits; is a sanctuary among the constant murmurs of apologies and condolences. Its spiralling staircase offering shelter from hollow words and tight smiles and people he recognises from pages in glossy magazines and news spots covering white-collar crime._

_The Novak Estate stood testament to limitless credit cards and idle hands, a sprawling compound, at the centre of which stood the main branch residence, a marble mausoleum of sharp, modern architecture; jutting like huge, misshapen slabs of broken teeth from the earth that bore it._

_The Novak fortune was not without it's pointed fingers; barely balanced on volatile foundations; accusations of blackmail, embezzlement and the occasional dappling in the west coast arms trade; allegations of which were swiftly swept under the hem of this seasons Versace following Naomi Novak's rise to power; heralding a new era for the Novak Empire._

_She had been quick to pull the chiffon veil across the family's questionable alliances, shielding suspicious dealings and nefarious pursuits from the flash-bulbs of enthused shutter-bugs flittering in the peripheral; carefully governing the veneer the family had adapted, urban camouflage; gold and pinstripes and plunging necklines, seamlessly blending with gossip magazine socialites and the elegance of old money._

_Naomi is a slight, prim woman; hands delicately folded together, fingertips playing across the thick gold bands adorning her knuckles, residual adoration courtesy of her late-husband. Her posture impeccable, chin-dipping only slightly in a practised display of grief; Castiel had never been forthcoming with information regarding his estranged family, but Dean presumes this is a part she preforms beautifully, having had ample opportunity to practice grieving in a line of work in which she cut as many throats as hands she shook._

_She sits poised on a garish throne of carved mahogany, cigarette holder perched between polished fingers, a metronome motion of gentle swaying as she nods her head, mourners leaning by her shoulder, mouths close as they offer hushed words of consolation, confusing her disinterest for despair. She covets their emotional offerings, receiving them with eyes unfocused, staring into the middle distance, hoarding their compassion, a criminal down to the very bones that hold her; if not for her financial misdeeds, undoubtedly for her impact on the lives' of the Novak children._

_Dean's first encounter with the eldest sibling catches him by surprise. He's shuffling from foot to foot on the expansive porch of the Novak residence, evening's vibrant purples and heavy blues bruising the afternoon sky. Winter seeps through his bones, flipping his collar, curling further into old leather seeking comfort from the wind, he's trailing his thumb over the worn cardboard of a pack Castiel had carelessly shoved between the sofa cushions, forgotten in his haste to leave. Fingernail tracing the delicate, gold-embossed lettering, his concentration is broken by the crunch of gravel underfoot, a silhouette of squares and obtuse angles prominent against the backdrop of nature's soft curves._

''Everything alright, Sir,'' _he's asking, twilight throwing sharp features in harsh relief as he manifests from the shadows, and Dean is sucking a harsh breath through his teeth._

_While Cas' eyes told secrets of the forces of nature condemned and confined within his human features, a shifting mass of space reflecting outwardly; Michael has eyes like cold metal, but there's familiarity in their spectrum._

_Dean's response is a slow outpouring of verbal soup, mouth moving awkwardly, like he's reacquainting himself with the English language; instead, he's offering the crumpled packaging of the remaining cigarettes, five cancerous little candles rolling about the box, one for each year of their relationship._

''Just out for a smoke,'' _he's muttering, raising one to blue lips between trembling fingers, teeth grinding on the filter. Michael shakes his head, declining the offer, posture relaxing, hand noticeably retreating from the inner pocket of his smart woollen coat, thankfully empty, fingers curling and flexing in the absence of whatever he'd been reaching for previously._

''Naomi was concerned about intruders,'' _he offers ambiguously, steel-gaze fixed on the horizon, studiously ignoring Dean's raised eyebrow._

_Dean's shrugging his disinterest, struggling to summon the energy to exhibit anything more than crippling apathy. He's patting down his pockets for the lighter he knows he won't find, an exercise in futility, some cleverly articulated observation summarising his relationship with Castiel. Michael's folding arms across his chest, rolling from the balls of his feet to the heel, a repetitive motion occurring at the corner of his vision he finds oddly therapeutic, a metronome to match his own racing heart against._

''Did you serve with him?'' _Michael's asking, a suspicious hesitance in his question, eyes squinting against the first dusting of stars, nose crinkling in feigned concentration, his focus rooted in the next few words Dean can compose himself enough to string together._ ''Sure,'' _he responds, unenthusiastic, automated answers for a conversation he wants no part of, to stand under the stars and wax poetic about Cas feels dishonest, but Michael continues anyway, interpreting his non-answer as an indication to continue, not so much a display of ignorance as an assertion of dominance. An exaggerated sigh, a white cloud of breath, he's saying,_ ''Castiel was always so unusual,'' _a small smirk, his features warped by the limited lighting, his eyes are pits carved into his face, '_ 'Father encouraged that in him.''

_By the time he and Dean met, Castiel had long since subconsciously restricted any feelings with regards his relationship with his father; sharing them secretly with the mouth of a whiskey bottle in those AM hours when he presumed the only company he entertained was his own. His only dislike for the man had seemingly stemmed from the fact that he had felt incapable of successfully wrestling with feelings of inadequacy and fault following his father's abandonment. Castiel would never share these thoughts without the sad implications of Jack on his breath, and it's along this line of reflection Dean realises why the conversation grates at his nerves, sends spikes of electric anxiety shooting through his jaws._

_He cannot seem to break the habit, subliminal or otherwise, of mentally referring to Cas in the present tense._

_He feels detached from the situation at hand, watching this bored soap-opera play out from the comfort of his couch; and maybe Cas is still sitting, wrapped in cotton wool layers of carefully maintained silence, curled at the opposite end, a bare foot resting against Dean's thigh, a subtle reassurance that maybe right now they are not happy, but there's always a chance they'll relearn something like it._

_He's suddenly and inexplicably angry, a fuse lit beneath his skin, fireworks and gunfire on his teeth, he's saying,_ ''Cas wasn't a well man,' _an overwhelming bitterness punching the air from his lungs, a directionless fury, hot and dry against his skin, offended on Cas' behalf at the muted display of mourning, the formal dignity and civility reserved for the powerful and the popular, draped in black silk and mascara crocodile tears, fake eyelashes coming unglued. Respectfully approved declarations of apology mechanical and false in their delivery. A beige collage-work of Hallmark phrases,_ 'Castiel was such a kind kid', 'Cas was an all-round great guy,' 'Castiel was such a nice boy,' _and he's debating taking a knee and kissing Naomi's ring, declaring to her clenched knuckles just how good her son's lips looked wrapped around his cock._

_Castiel, while not Naomi's biological son, had certainly gleaned a thing or two from her methods of maintaining the familial order; a professional in the art of subtle manipulation, a skilled strategist in getting what he wanted, Cas was capable of being an outright bastard when the situation required and the idea that these sombre-faced strangers bow their heads in a collective moment of silence for 'mommy's little prince' is laughable. He cannot keep an ironic smile from peeling at the corners of his mouth, lips cracking in the pull against the frigid night air._

_Michael continues on, oblivious to his private musings, although Dean swears he sees the suggestions of laugh lines carefully etched into the hard plains of his face; fondness softens his features, a rare lapse in defence, he's saying, '_ 'Castiel had something dark inside him,'' _and Dean does not doubt that for a second, recalls numerous conversations stunted by the shadows lurking behind glassy eyes._

_He presses lips tight at the thought, some latent hero complex within him revealing itself, irritated by his inability to intervene, to exorcise Castiel of the gloomy things that took root inside his head._

''But he was trying to remedy that,'' _and for a man who spent so little time in his younger brother's company, Michael seems confident in his assessment, adjusting the the collar of his coat, squinting slate-coloured eyes against the encroaching wind, carefully avoiding Dean Winchester's incredulous expressions, saying, '_ 'It's no secret he had a stormy relationship with Naomi,'' _doesn't bother mentioning the numerous front page articles detailing the tumultuous connection between the matriarchal director of the Novak Family, a Madonna draped in black veils and chains of gold; and the youngest heir to the fortune, the troubled son of the late C. Novak. Glossy photos of Naomi, pristine and polite, schmoozing at red velvet rope social events printed alongside paparazzi candids of Cas, clothes hanging from his gaunt frame, a patchwork of maroon coloured kisses staining the chalky white of his skin, trembling hands struggling to light a cigarette, dark hair a tousled mess._

_Articles wove intricate golden thread tales of drug abuse and alcohol addiction, fumble to explain the darkened smudges beneath his eyes as side effects of his disease, rumours fueled by Naomi's carefully chosen comments, lamenting her step-son's very public downward spiral, remaining resolute that should his behaviour continue, she would be forced to sever his connection with the Novak family, all in the name of his own good, of course. The media had displayed little sympathy for Castiel who proved incapable of verbalising his own feelings, the fits of inexplicable and overwhelming melancholy that would possess him on occasion._

_Castiel had himself severed connection with the Novak estate, disappearing off the grid to rot in Dean's shitty apartment, cradled within the safety of his self-made mausoleum, water-stained paperbacks and prescription pills._

_Michael turns his glacial gaze on Dean, cataloguing the minute fluctuations in the warring expressions playing out across his features, mentally seeking to establish a timeline for Castiel's troubled collapse; the cigarette filter a mangled, threaded mess between grating teeth._

''Our father wanted him to be happy,'' _Michael is saying, overlooking an ironic grunt from Dean, doubtfully shaking his head, lips pulling upwards at the corners._ ''He was my brother; and I loved him,;' _and it's the first echo of naked honesty Dean had observed among a litany of forced eulogies. It draws his attention, eyes flickering upward to meet Michael's steel gaze, '_ 'And I think you might have too,'' _he's saying, eyes pinpricks of focus, zeroing in on the cracks appearing in Dean's calm and collected façade._

_He's swallowing hard, an audible click as his throat constricts and conspires to suffocate him, and he's thinking maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing._

_He doesn't bother to question how Michael figured him out, presumes it's written along the premature lines appearing in his face, stress and loss ageing him beyond his years. He sighs in resignation, rubbing a palm across his mouth, maybe nodding his agreement to Michael's suggestion, he prefers not to dwell on the thought,_ ''I knew Cas could never be happy, at least, not in the way father had hoped,'' _Michael's saying to the screen of his phone, perhaps sensing Dean's reluctance, a radiating discomfort with the intimacy of the topic; breaking eye contact and any obligation to engage with the subject._

_Dean's feeling a sharp sting at the corner of his eye, enraged by his own crumbling defence; he's staring at his feet, counting the tiny stitches along the cap of his boot, and if they grow increasingly blurry, he pretends not to notice. His jaw is clenched tight, a painful throb claws it's way through his skull, Michael's voice a monotone accompaniment to an inevitable moment of weakness, a searing burn constricting in his chest._

''I wanted to see him control whatever was inside him,'' _and despite a vulnerability in the honesty of his words, Michael speaks, stares vacantly into the distance as though reading from a prompter, measured pauses, calculated sentence structure, a hesitance that belies an unfamiliarity with the subject,_ ''And I think maybe he was finally getting there.'' _And Dean's pinching the bridge of his nose tight between thumb and forefinger, eyes squeezed shut against the sting of salt gathering along his lashes. An unsteady, wet exhale escapes from between clenched teeth and he hears the heavy shift as Michael turns toward him, feels the clutching pressure of a hand on his forearm, a vague attempt at reassurance demonstrated by a man with the emotional range of a machine, his grip too tight._

''I am sorry for your loss, Dean,'' _he says with a formal finality._

_And it's the first time Dean hears it, the verbal confirmation; it's not a decorated announcement, no colourful statements of irrational reasoning, a bullshit singsong of_ ''Everything'll be okay, Dean'', _a vapid chorus-line of_  ''How do you feel?'' _exhausting in its repetition._

_Michael's dissecting cold hard fact, an autopsy of feeble comforts and eggshell conversations and the results are in. Dean won't be waking up to Cas sitting cross-legged hunched over their coffee table, won't endure Cas' stubborn silences across the dinner table, won't subject himself to Cas' vicious passions across a bed-sheet minefield._

_Castiel Novak, his Cas, is gone.  
_

_Michael's peeling his firm grasp from Dean's quaking shoulder, retreating within the cool, quiet confines of the manor, the sound of his footsteps lost to the howl of a wailing wind._

_Dean's sliding to the ground, fists pressed tight against damp eyes, left alone to mourn._

Days later finds Dean poured into the cushions of his own sofa, stewing pleasantly in an ethanol buzz, attention completely disconnected from the bustle of movement surrounding him, entirely focused on the reassuring cool of a glass bottle between his palms, his anchor to reality.

Sam sits opposite him, gangly limbs folded elegantly inwards, an awareness of self he has only recently become acquainted with, his towering silhouette leaning to confer in carefully muted tones, Ellen listening dutifully, nodding her head in agreement, eyes carefully angled towards the worn-denim of her thighs, a measured avoidance of a direct encounter with Dean's fading awareness, the entire room taking on a surreal quality, a Dalí-esque dreamlike reality, the kitchen clock melting above the doorway. Bobby's low drawl grumbles in the distance, threat of an oncoming storm looming, and Dean's curled comfortable in the eye, waiting for the quicksand atmosphere to devour him whole.

The cushions beside him dip and groan, and Jo is leaning into his peripheral, a pretty recreation of a Disney princess with her sweeping sheets of golden hair, huge chocolate-coloured eyes blinking wide and glossy and maybe if the bluebirds would stop their excited chittering, perched across her thin, sun-kissed shoulders, he could unravel the tense words of her question from the flow of their high-pitched song.

Sam is politely withdrawing from his strained exchange with Ellen, reaching across the coffee table to place a colossal hand on her delicate shoulder, the bluebirds twittering their outrage, a fluttering storm of blue-emerald and oil slick green that stir up something uncomfortable in the depths of his chest. Jo's nodding in understanding, leaning back, vanishing from his immediate space, and he misses her charming warmth, her ill-advised concern.

Sam is fixing him with a level gaze, pity intricately woven through the hazel colour of his eyes, he's saying, '' _Dean, man. Maybe you should slow down on the beers_ ,'' face contorted in apprehension.

Sam had grabbed a red-eye flight cross-country after receiving the news from Gabriel, frantically knocking at Dean's apartment door a little over twelve hours later, an unkempt flurry of movement, ushering Dean towards the sofa, utilizing every ploy he'd mastered during his years at Stanford to manipulate an emotional response from his despondent older brother.

Sam, fully aware of Dean's own inclination towards alcoholic reassurance had been quick to act, 2 AM that night seeing him crowded over the kitchen sink, a battalion of empty bottles standing silent vigil by his elbows, his white shirt flecked in amber-coloured stains.

''What are you doing?'' _Dean's asking, holding up the door frame with a slumped shoulder, lingering in the shadows of the hallway, observing his brother's whirlwind of motion with a bored indifference. Sam only glances his direction, brown strands sweeping across his face, he's brushing bangs from his eyes with his forearm, fingertips dripping gold in the dim light._

''Just making sure,'' _he says matter-of-factly, thinly veiled references to John Winchester's questionable coping methods and allusions to Dean's own penchant for self-destruction left unspoken._

_Dean is sleep-rumpled, exhaustion eventually conquering his restless tossing, if only for an hour or two; sporting lavender shades beneath his eyes, his face a blotchy impressionist study in shades of grey. He's sprawling across the sofa, his languid stretch accompanied by the clatter of a paperback hitting the floorboards, unnoticed previously, resting open, face-down on the arm of the chair, it's spine cracked, it's pages spotted in grease; abandoned mid-sentence by Castiel, and Dean thinks he knows the feeling._

_Sam's waving a hand in a sweeping gesture, encompassing the entire room, saying,_ ''Do you want me to clean some of this stuff up,'' _and it's a kind offer to rid the apartment of Cas' possessions, painful reminders hidden in plain sight; the stacks of abandoned books, monuments to Cas' preoccupation, coffee cups stashed between sofa cushions; Cas' brand of cigarettes rolling loose in the dresser by the bed._

_Dean's brain, softened by lack of sleep, is slow to interpret the meaning of Sam's offer, unable to stop himself from responding,_  ''Cas'll deal with it.''

_The silence that precedes is a tangible weight._

_Dean's reluctantly hopeful that Sam's extermination of the apartment's alcoholic content did not lead him to the vegetable crisper. He's picking his way hesitantly around sprawling polyester obstructions and Cas' written-word necropolis; unfamiliar, charting the surface of the moon for all it's intimacy, unaccustomed to occupying a space not already possessed by Cas' charisma, the thunder storms and ice ages enduring within his atmosphere._

_Sam maps his progress, eyes tired, wounded, in a rare display of empathetic expression; he's hesitating, knuckles white against amber glass, mouth frozen parted, words dying on a sharp inhale, Dean swinging the refrigerator door open, white light spilling from electronic organs highlighting the deep hollows beneath bloodshot eyes, a face carved from Howlite, blue-black veins visible beneath waxy skin. He rests his forehead against the back of his hand, still clutching at the door for balance; seeking out an anchor. His sigh is a death rattle, eyes drifting closed, urge dissolving beneath the powerful weight of exhaustion._

_Sam returns to the task at hand, pouring liquid gold down the drain, lips pressed together for lack of anything reassuring to add, and he's thinking maybe he should consider emptying the bleach bottles beneath the sink._

_Dean has turned to stone, silhouette traced against the tiles, LED halo and slumped-shoulder wings and Sam's mind is wandering, eyes fixed subconsciously on the stationary shadow portrait hanging haunted from the wall. He had yet to inform Bobby of the news, having arrived in a cyclone of excessive brotherly concern, reinforced upon seeing Dean existing like an absentee within his own life, shambling shades of his former glory made transparent by grief._

_Every moment of his time had been devoted to soft words, kind eyes; reassuring hands coaxing Dean towards the bedroom, removing what little momentos Dean would allow; a tie swinging from the door handle, a hoodie slung across the headboard._

_A gentle huff of laughter extracts him from pious reflection, hesitant to witness what he presumes to be 'The Breakdown', but Dean has a fond smile on his face, eyes sad, reflective crystals gathering along his lashes and only Cas could deserve this diamond-studded sorrow. He's tracing fingertips across the jumble of memories pinned across the refrigerator door, each punctuated by the tacky plastic face of a wildly grinning Looney Toon._

_Cas had always had a fondness for The Road Runner._

_Photos of their old apartment flanked by candid polaroids of Cas reading, Cas smoking, Cas existing. A patchwork of fast food menus presenting a colourful mosaic among the noir nostalgia black and white snapshots. A crinkled account of Dean, hunched in concentration over a beaten acoustic; surface scarred, a criss-cross document detailing years of misdirected emotions. A small smile plays about his lips, Cas draped across his shoulder, leaning close, mouth a motion blur of whisper by his ear. A small suggestion of the intimacy and comfort between them, an indication of feelings both were reluctant to discuss, and looking at this picture now, catching glimpses between Dean's fluttering fingertips, Sam remembers why he took it._

_Dean's removing something, the rustle of paper, a rainfall of photos decorating the kitchen tiles drawing Sam's attention. He snuffs another vague attempt at a laugh, fondly shaking his head, intricately decorated card pinched between his thumb and forefinger. And Sam can't glean any more information before Dean is stuffing it carelessly into his pants pocket, face resettling into something blank and unreadable, ripples across the surface of water waning and disappearing._

_S_ _am, in a rare display of emotional awareness, opts not to press the response, staring vacantly as Dean retreats to the dark, stifling tomb he's made of their bedroom._

The repetitive shuffle of obligated sympathies brings another body orbiting, occupying the seat next to him, petulant silence and the smell of sherbet, Gabriel's searing scars into the tabletop with a lazer-like focus, twisting his knuckles in a series of ceaseless, nervous clicks and shifts, hands clammy with the effort.

He's surveying their surroundings, a calculated observation of their guests, a still rampant protective fraternal streak driving him to evaluate each individual on the grounds of their relationship to Castiel. His focus currently centred on Ellen, peering at the instructions on the back of a microwavable meal, cheap cardboard held inches from her face, nose scrunched in concentration; Jo tipping a beer her direction and suggesting that maybe '' _the bespectacled Librarian look would suit you, Mom. Guys lov_ e _that,_ '' before he's inevitably turning lacklustre eyes on Dean, his usual mischievous smirk dampened to a meagre suggestion of laugh creases by the corners of his mouth.

Hands hesitantly patting at the pockets of his coat he's saying, '' _Thanks for coming around, man_ ,'' and Dean can only presume the apologetic tone is a response to Naomi's intimidating presence, a celestial being observing the event from her untouchable colossus stance, her golden throne; Michael's bizarre confession of attachment, an outpouring of clumsily-expressed sentiments from a mechanical man defied the capacity to love.

Gabriel's pressing a thumb against the bridge of his nose, teeth clicking shut, the grind visible through the tendons puppeteering in his cheek. Dean's saying, '' _Yeah, no worries_ ,'' tilting his beer bottle this way and that, fragments of light painting facets of diamonds across the carpets.

Gabriel moves like a man who used to smoke, Dean thinks, occupying a perpetual state of discomfort, twitching and sniffing, thumbing at irritated eyes; it's not unusual to see him indulging his sweet tooth, white paper stick of a lollipop clenched between grit teeth long after the sugar has dissolved on his tongue, a reassuring weight against his lower lip. He's clenching the knuckles of one hand in his jeans now, fabric snagging beneath stubby fingernails and this situation is proving to be a test of willpower. Dean knows Castiel had stashed cigarettes in numerous hidey-holes around the apartment, outmanoeuvring his own inattention; wonders if maybe he should offer to help ease the edge, but Gabriel's found whatever he'd been digging through his pockets for.

A small square of thin card, embossed blue lettering indecipherable from this angle, but he makes no move to offer it over just yet, seeming to study it's every atom, flicking it over and under, between his fingers; saying, '' _I don't know who her eulogy was for, but it wasn't Cas_ ,''.

Dean hears echoes of Naomi's insincerity, a tastefully written tribute mourning the loss of her wayward son, head bowed in heartbreak, too stoic or too stingy to shed a solitary tear for the sake of her flashbulb audience. She had read as though unfamiliar with the words, unaccustomed to such an expression of emotional vulnerability, a glaring ignorance as she weaves fond, fictional tales of strangers and ghosts, and each and every one named Castiel; vague anecdotes general enough to be applicable, broad brush strokes blocking the ambiguous suggestion of a human being beneath her verbal decoration.

''Castiel was such a good boy,'' _her words instantly blending to a background hum, Dean's sipping scotch worth more than his apartment, stifling his laughter as she details Cas' interest in film, his enthusiasm for writing; and Dean's wondering if passive aggressive notes written on receipts and newspaper margins and bathroom mirrors in shaving foam count as writing; debating whether or not Cas staying up until four in the morning to sarcastically mouth along to the awful dialogue from VHS 90's porn, viciously dissecting it's narrative structure during the ad breaks, qualified as an educated interest in film._

A smile creases the corner of his mouth, and Gabriel correctly assumes he's mentally replaying Naomi's practised grieving. He's flattening his expression to add, immitation accent viciously precise through years of mimicking his dispassionate step-mother, '' _Castiel was such a generous boy_ ,'' knuckle wiping an imaginary tear from beneath his eye, Dean huffs another laugh while Sam watches on, curious, as they lapse into comfortable silence once more.

'' _I know he was my little brother_ ,'' Gabriel's saying, fingertip tracing the age of the business card, '' _but he was an asshole_ ,'' he adds, not without fondness and this time Dean can't help the laughter that tears from his throat. Days of sombre black veils, murmured apologies and falsified accounts of golden hearts and strong spirits, and Gabriel's finally shining a light on a character lost to well wishes and fraudulent accounts; declaring Castiel Novak the wicked little prick Dean had fallen victim to on numerous occasions.

_It's the ten year anniversary of Cas' mother's death, and Naomi, not to be bested by the dwindling memories of a dead woman, had organised a huge banquet in her honour. Dean's feeling entirely out of place in the up-scale dining room of some fancy, five-star big city hotel; Fifty stories from the cement and feeling utterly adrift. A line of silverware three feet long flanks each side of his plate; each course served, a tribute to contemporary art in vivid reds and bright yellows and Castiel viciously cuts and stabs at his food, sliding it around his plate in messy rebellion, but makes no moves to eat anything, scraping the prongs of his fork against fine China for the umpteenth time, shrill screech drawing everyone's attentions, immediately halting any conversational progression; he's smiling saccharine sweet apologies before boredom inevitably returns him to his ministrations._

_Dean sits opposite Gabriel; Kali a vision of painterly beauty, stoic and straight-backed by his side; gold shimmering around her wrists, glittering along her knuckles as she distractedly realigns the multitude of cutlery bordering her plate, eyes slanted downwards as Gabriel murmurs low in her ear. Her dark eyes are fixated on Cas' hands as he clicks stubby fingernails against the stem of a crystalline wine glass._ ''Something wrong, Castiel?'' _she's asking, sitting up straighter, bracing for inevitable impact;_ ''Is the food not up to your impossibly high standards?'', _eyes purposefully sliding to Dean's slouching build; oil-smeared fingerprints and fraying cuffs, a subtle dig at Cas' questionable ideals._

_The smug smile that peels at her mouth has Gabriel rolling his eyes, effectively checking out of the conversation, shifting in his seat, imitation fascination and feigned indulgence in some drawling anecdote Michael is sharing._

_Cas only pauses the tinkling fairy-footstep beat to pinch the glass between two fingers, holding it up against the halogen glare, geometric star-shine sprawling across his face. He's rolling it against the pads of his fingertips, the disco-ball reflection shimmering across his features; an emphasis on it's emptiness, suggesting his unwillingness to participate in Kali's particularly tiresome tournament of psychological back and forth without alcoholic encouragement readily available. He sighs worthy of Hollywood silver screens and golden awards, saying,_  ''I find the company at these things severely lacking, if anything,'' _and Kali's dark eyes are narrowed, smoke and spiders legs and promises of swift revenge; teeth grit, gears audibly grinding, her retort withering on a silver tongue as Naomi's cool interference disrupts the familiar powwow._

''Castiel! behaving ourselves, I hope,'' _and it's an obvious threat wearing the face of witty repartee, a barbed comment that has what feels like the entire congregation turning in a military synchronicity that has Dean's hackles rising. Cas, indulging his penchant for martyrdom and disobedience is smiling sugar and sparkles, his hand creeping along Dean's thigh beneath the table, saying,_ ''Of course Naomi,'' _half moon crescents spelling disaster on the soft skin there,_ ''I'm nothing if not well-behaved,'' _and Dean's thick gulp is ironic punctuation to Cas' plea of innocence._

_She narrows her eyes, exercising a strategic retreat, reluctantly returning to conversation with Michael; attention divided between the brothers. She's studying Cas from the corner of her eye and Dean recognises her predatory posture from late night documentaries; animals and serial killers and he's yet to decide which description proves more suitable._

_Cas' fingernails resume their symphonic click-clacking against the buckle of Dean's belt, tracing fire along zipper teeth, fingertip tempo rapid, coy smirk warping his features; and Dean's risking a glance at Naomi's tight expression when Cas grips him hard, channels electricity through a million nerve endings. Naomi's levelling his rigid posture with a razor-sharp glare, one part curiosity, two parts disgust, and she's got eyes in the walls, as is custom for individuals of her calibre_ _; sitting upon her gilded throne, surveying her guests with a lethargic lack of concern, Dean briefly wonders if she's aware her step-son is currently palming his cock beneath the table._

_Castiel is a rosy-cheeked, renaissance imitation of child-like innocence, tracing secrets into the fine china with the blunt end of his spoon, spelling 'I need you's' into the denim creases lining Dean's thighs._

_Gabriel's got a smirk on his face that says he knows his brother too well, fond head shake, eyes tilted toward his food._

_And suddenly the pressure and heat, hands that could compress diamonds from coal, absent from his skin; Cas is curling arms above his head, a languid, cat-like stretch, an exaggerated yawn that has Naomi turning a trained glare like hypodermic needles pricking at the skin beneath Dean's collar; Cas, as always, unaffected._

_The legs of his chair a chorus of clamorous screeching, metal on marble; he's shoving away from the table, place setting in disarray, a clerical tribute to his ceaseless frustration. His muttered request to be excused lost within the act of already taking his leave, he's tracing fingertips along the tense line of Dean's shoulder, mapping his escape route in old leather, he's saying,_ ''Are you coming?'' _, voice a barely restrained growl._

_The walk to the elevators leads them through empty lobbies and silent corridors, an alabaster Siberia and soundlessness, the click-clack of Cas' steps lost to the drumbeat echo of Dean's pulse hammering in his throat. Cas is regal in the straight lines of his figure, the high tilt to his head, courtesies trained into his bones throughout his wealthy upbringing, he takes his time selecting a floor, fingertip tapping against the soft pink of his mouth, halogen shine of the silky wet inside and Dean can't swallow around the golf ball lodged in his throat._

_The second those doors close, he's slamming Cas against the mirrored wall, pressing his mouth against eyes and jaws and jugulars and Cas has a fistful of dirty blonde strands, pulling and scratching with a fury that belies the practised poise displayed at the table earlier._

_His gasps are hot and heavy against the shell of Dean's ear, a collection of sighs and groans he thinks maybe the angels will sing him in heaven; he's matching the rhythm with sloppy kisses, a damp press against the straining lines of Cas' throat, an inexplicable anger mouthing_ ''Does this make you happy,'' _against the bruised skin there._

_He would kiss him, steal those sounds from his lips, but more recently Cas tastes like Sahara Storms, like nuclear winter; a metaphysical ending that leaves him hollow and quaking._

_But Cas is fighting him, clenched fists beating at his chest, shoving him violently against the opposite wall before dropping to his knees, eyes closed in celestial worship, clever fingers clamouring at his belt buckle, curling beneath the waistband of his underwear, wrapping lips slick with spit around his length, and Dean's knuckles are white, fingernails carving abstract design into Cas' scalp and he can't tear his eyes from the sight._

_Cas' palms are insistent pressure against bare thighs, mouth damp and bruised, Dean's pulling him closer, feeling the muscles of his throat seize, his eyes roll white in his head, fingerprints searing fire into pale skin. His throaty retch is encouragement enough and Dean's wrapping trembling hands around his cut-glass jaw, urging him closer, whispered encouragement leaking from between clenched teeth on every exhale._

_Cas' eyes are the blue of postcards and summer skies, blinking lazily beneath the smudge of dark lash, cheeks and chin wet and pink._

_Dean's slamming his head against sheet metal and mirrored glass, eyes unfocused, attuned to the wet slide of Cas' mouth on his cock, he doesn't hear the elevator doors dinging open, the verbal assault of middle-aged lady draped in shades of red, her tiny dog yipping it's contribution from the safety of her patent pink purse._

_Cas has little mercy to spare, knees spreading wide across corrugated steel, sucking dick like he's starving; moaning like the soundtrack to a five-dollar porno, she's storming away, sounds of protest already shrieking, ghoulish, from her painted mouth._

_Cas is pulling himself to his feet, slamming a clammy palm against the panel of buttons, lacking specificity; as is his curse, but his delicate fingers are curling around Dean's collar, his ears, tracing the line of his mouth, the set of his brow, lips barely brushing, never meeting he's saying,_ ''I need this,'' _tracing fingertips along Dean's arm, catching in the creases of his shirt, the buttons of his cuff, following the intricate line of his palms, hooking fingers and lining them against a strand of black and blue kisses, a collar of contempt kissing the contours of his throat._

_Dean's eyes are fixated on swollen lips, interpreting the words like Heaven's commandments and Cas is saying,_ ''Fuck me like you hate me,'' _and he thinks these days it's easier, pressing Cas' pretty face against cotton or concrete, crushing maroon-coloured inkblots beneath the surface of his skin, Dean's reading daddy issues and a repressed inability to maintain a functional personal relationship from a collection of Rorschach bruises._

_The following morning there's scarlet dotting their sheets, Dean doesn't inquire, has blood bruises speckled along his knuckles, pinpricks of violence gathering beneath his skin, and Cas approaches his self-loathing with a renewed enthusiasm, an age-old ritual deciphered between the vicious impact of skin on skin, hips and mouths and fists. He finds words escape him, retreats into familiar silences, strains of unspoken tensions, of love and loathing and the things he experiences while left alone in his own company. A study of misery and stooped shoulders, draped in folds of white cotton, clarity of crystalline eyes lost to an impressionist blur of pinks and reds and winter blues, he's saying,_ ''Do you love me?''

'' _He was somethin' else alright_ ,'' Dean's saying to the twisted knot of bone-white knuckle, skin pink and stretched, fingers a nervous tangle in his lap. Gabriel's agreeing distractedly, lost in his own sepia-toned reconstruction, he's curling the business card between his thumbs before reluctantly presenting it, inexplicable embarrassment colouring the tips of his ears vivid, saying, '' _I thought you could use this_.''

Dean's accepting the feeble offer, fingertip tracing curling blue letters, vaguely recognising the clinic's name as something he and Cas had discussed before. Gabriel's shrugging in feigned nonchalance saying, '' _They helped me. With Anna_ ,'' an accompanying pat on the back before leaving to dissolve amongst a crowd of well-wishers and alcohol-soaked mourners, reluctant to engage in any aspect of conversation that allow him the emotional vulnerability discussing Anna seemed to expose within the Novak brothers, a familial weak spot for a small, half-mad girl with hair the colour of fire, a mouth filled with burning accusation and a mind that spun in dizzying circles.

Dean's recollection of Anna is a haphazard collection of snippets Cas had reluctantly shared, fragments of a human being collected from shards of sharp conversation. Anna had been an elder sibling to both Castiel and Gabriel; a girl plagued by the songs of angels and demons; visions a mess of stained-glass and remnants of old worlds. Institutionalised in her youth, Anna's suicide had been an open wound for the Novak family for several years, devastating Gabriel and isolating Cas even further from the main branch.

Dean's turning the card over once more within trembling palms, bitter to be on the receiving end of sympathy, eager to lash out and place blame elsewhere saying, '' _Gabe!_ ''

Gabriel's turning on a polished heel, aged thirty years by the lingering ghosts of Castiel held here in the yellowed pages of books, coffee-stained mugs and the ashtray left overflowing on the sideboard.

'' _He was going to you that night, y'know_.''

The night he died. The night his reckless anger had seen him wander into traffic, alcohol tangling common sense, a rampant desire to hurt people forcing it's way to the forefront.

Gabriel's shrugging nonchalant; the accusation sliding easily from his sagging shoulders.

'' _Couldn't have been._   _Kali was in town. You know they don't get along_.''

Dean's fully aware of the long-standing feud between the two, a bitter rivalry for Gabriel's lavish attentions; knows that despite the depths of his understanding for his big brother, Castiel's patience did not extend to the ever-present Kali and her razor-sharp wit.

Dean's confusion leaves him vacant-eyed and dumb, and Gabriel's tapping him on the shoulder with one finger, a harsh jab of focus against his collar-bone saying, '' _Just consider it_ ,'' tilting his head towards the business card .

If Dean's tucking it in his wallet before Pamela's tarot card, it probably means nothing.


	3. Anna's Song and The Things She Left Behind

Anna never identified with the muddy shades of grey, didn't experience life in its lesser increments, preferring instead, to embrace a lifestyle of existing in extremes, ' _I'd rather feel like God sometimes, and total shit the rest of the time, than just 'okay' all the time._ ' She had a heart that beat like raging storms beneath her ribs, enduring her suffering in obliging silence; Hell-fire flaming in her hair, hot rage gathering like fizzling electricity between the fingers of clenched fists; whittling her teeth to bone-white splinters; she would compulsively nip at the tender skin around her nails until blood pooled beneath the bed, gathering in the spirals of her fingerprints.

 

_Anna spoke in poetry and philosophy and forgotten biblical languages; creating art with a fluency and articulation she found dialogue could not convey. She painted vivid stained glass images, murals of the Madonna, of brilliant stars and celestial beings; she captured a masterpiece sunset with mashed carrots and the greying potato paste served at meal times. She sketched the orderlies, crisp white uniforms and haunted expressions; her brothers, Castiel with the sky in his eyes; more often than not, her fellow patients the subject of her anatomical obsession. She moulded fantastical creatures from hunks of coloured plasticine, her finest work yet in the intricate patterns and scientific design carved devotedly into the soft swatch of white stretching from ankle to thigh, spelling her own ruin in violent red across the floor of her room, pretty faces and thumb smear angel halos, a boy with broken baby-bird wings, another with a hole where his heart should be._

_Anna's death had been this stretch of inevitable emotional blackout looming on the horizon for months following her first exploration into the effects of self-harm. In the difficult weeks eventually culminating in her suicide, Dean had often accompanied a despairing Castiel to the ward, arm curled around the slope of his shoulder, whispering_ 'everything's going to be fine,' _in a hypocritical display of straining comfort. Cas had been younger then, the cooler shades collecting beneath his eyes had not been so prominent, fingertips not yet stained in blooms of yellow-brown blemishes, a testament to his devotion to his own self-destruction; a thirty-year suicide plan in cigarettes and alcohol-poisoning._

_He's sitting at the foot of her bed, bright white halogen and sparse walls painting angelic light across his features; Anna's folded delicately, cross-legged in the corner, the debris of a violent artistic outburst littered around her; an explosion of necessity, a girl consumed by frantic energy moving manic at its epicentre. There's charcoal powder on her fingers, black dust embedded in the creases of her knuckles, her hands in rapid motion; a flutter of hummingbird wings above the pages, she's capturing the light as it burns her brother in it's heaven glow, a beacon ablaze; her burning bush and it's vow of silence, her bedsheet Mount Horeb._

_Castiel talks about everything and nothing, massaging the joints in his fingers, eyes rooted to the evidence of pink stain fingerprints pressed close to the linoleum. Dean's watching his ministrations with a morbid fascination; arms folded across his chest, human furniture lurking in the doorway, providing an extra obstacle should Anna decide to take her leave of their company._

_Thus far, she has yet to raise her eyes against him. She's strictly mapping the architectural model of Cas's jaw, holding her thumb in the air, eyes squinting tight in concentration, measuring the distance from the crease of his brow to the downturn at the corners of his mouth, before, inevitably her passions absorb her once again, focus magnetised towards her paper-stacked wreckage, the nuclear fallout to a private decline._

_She says,_ 'It's not safe here,' _and Cas is glancing up, eyes wet and blue, smears of maroon among his lashes, biting at his lower lip, he's scared, his body riddled with the residual tremors of anxiety; reluctant to explore further into his sister's damaged visions, unwilling to recognise in them the same symptoms he had identified in the illness as it had manifested in and subsequently devoured his mother. He's nodding slowly, a rattling hum echoing in his throat and swelling in his mouth, he can't breathe around his own nerves._

_Dean, previously reluctant to intervene, baffled by Castiel's single-minded dedication to a family so quick to disregard him and the resulting sense of self-loathing in his inability to help them; clears his throat, a wordless request for permission. Cas is barely occupying the same space. He continues on regardless._

'Why not, Anna?'

 _She finally fixes him with a drug-dampened gaze, her eyes huge dark holes sinking empty in her face. A small smile quirks at her mouth, her lips a flaking mess of fine red lines, she keeps her studious stare on his face and he feels it slide across his skin like thick oil, slow and seeping, leaking into the premature lines Cas has carved by the corners of his eyes. Her trembling hand over-turning paper mounds in her creative blast-zone, she's seeking out a chalk in shades of green saying,_  'Don't move,'  _holding the crumbling stick of dusty green against the evening light, asking,_ 'Sap or forest?'

 _Cas' fingernails are buried in his scalp, unable to combat his desire to make an appearance here in support of his sister; readily indulging in some twisted display of solidarity, torturing himself in present company, serving penance in watching over her as her vibrant inferno dwindles to feeble sparks. He says,_ 'Anna, please,' _in response to nothing in particular, just a general plea for a split-second recovery, addressing denim-clad thighs with an inconsolable sincerity._

_Dean loathes the idea that Cas ever crave something to the extent he chases and coaxes his sister's reclusive recovery, abhors the idea that Cas ever be denied his wishes, and it's stubborn loyalty, growing like weeds in the darker corners of his heart, his head; choking out any lingering echoes of common sense that sees him take a knee before Anna's cardboard throne, a strange girl of whom he knows very little, bar the bonfire blazing in her hair, ancient words of alleged angels spilling from her mouth and fingertips._

'Why is it not safe here?' _the hazy chalk outline of a familiar face stares back at him from the pages beneath her clenched fists, green eyes like toxic spills pooling beneath her palms, he's asking,_ 'Is someone coming?'

'For him,' _she says, her hands streaking black smears in a rough imitation of Dean's jawline, fingertips chasing the curl of his ear, she's saying,_ 'They want him back,' _prying needle-point focus from a confusion of dark scribbles and crumpled pages, she's jabbing her finger at one in particular, bitten nails soundless as she taps an off-beat rhythm beneath the image; and of the repetitive symbols and themes that seem to affect her work, the scratch-work icon of a frightened boy with splintered-bone wings and eyes the colour of winter catches Dean's breath in his throat, volcanic ash gathering on his tongue._

'Of course,' _she announces, tone eerily uplifted, a sitcom smile stretching her mouth to dangerous proportions, shark-tooth grin and wild eyes, and Dean's taking an involuntary step back, removing himself from the blast radius,_ 'Nowhere is really "safe". _Her words are heavy with suggestion Dean can't begin to interpret, her fingernail solo synchronized to the sounds of the violence beating away in his chest._

_Cas is shifting among the bedsheets, sluggish in his moments, drained in occupying the same space as his sister and Dean wonders how he would tackle this situation had it been Sam sitting smug among the wreckage of his own stability. He watches Cas pick his way carefully through the battleground, paper soldiers and sticks of coloured chalk discarded like helmets after a war; the flag of surrender here is a mess of graphite fingerprints and Anna rules this realm with an iron fist. Cas awaits her permission before entering her atmosphere, Anna the bright burning star at the middle, and she is on edge, fire looping in her eyes, but he is kneeling before her, curling fingers to brush strands of dirty red behind her ear._

_Her voice is a broken whisper when she speaks, and her words are soft for Cas, her eyes dark and heartsick, she's saying,_  'Nowhere is safe, Castiel. Not for you.' _He's hushing her, soothing hands tracing the translucent skin of her cheek; it's not unkind, but Dean knows Cas is plagued by the symbolism behind her creations, the secrets she says the angels feed her, in their high-pitched sing-song of nails and chalkboards._ 'You can't go home,' _it's an urgent realisation, her fingernails catching in the cuffs of his coat, loose threads snagging in broken skin. Dean sees her vice grip lock against the thin shape of Cas' wrist, the material creasing and pulling beneath the pressure. Cas is channelling a calm he rarely exhibits, placing a hand over hers, saying,_ 'It's fine, Anna. Dean is there,' _his laugh his bittersweet, and Dean pretends not to notice._ 'He can protect me'.

 _Anna tears those huge watering eyes from her brother's face to fix that searchlight stare on Dean, the looming monolith casting a sinister shadow across their private exchange. Her hostility is tangible if inexplicable, and Dean sees Cas press reassuring circles into the white bone of her clenched knuckles. Her teeth grit, words leaking between them like acid she's saying,_ 'The places he keeps you aren't safe,' _turning back to Cas, a conspiratory whisper, she's jabbing her finger viciously against her temple, a repeated, violent action to ensure her brother understands her gesture, the depth of its implications,_ 'Not here,' _she hisses._

 _Her hands a bluster of activity, rifling through pages fueled by a criticality, she's peeling one from beneath a haphazard stack of yellowing dog-eared scraps. Pressing the fragment into the safe curl of her palm, she's offering it to Cas, fingertips shielding it's message from Dean's eyes. She's leaning forward, jabbing at the paper with renewed vigour, fingertip stabbing repeatedly against her palm, blackened fingerprints dotting her skin like bruising, she says_  'not here'.

_Before the orderlies usher them from the room, citing an end to visiting hours; Anna looking despairing, nestled in a cocoon of starched bedsheets; Cas tucks her drawing carefully into his pocket, hands pressing against the outside of his coat, releasing a breath at the reassuring crinkle he hears from beneath the layers. She kisses him on the head before he takes his leave, strands of dark hair mussed under the persistence of her clammy fingers and he is his own ghost for the rest of the evening, drifting and unsettled, plagued by a melancholy Dean loathes to see him suffer._

_That night, Cas climbs atop him in the dark and tears frustration with sharp little teeth into the skin of his throat, mouth-shaped marks stretching across the wide expanse of his shoulders. And Dean briefly entertains the idea that Cas and his sister are not so different; while her abuse was often self-inflicted, at the mercy of her own hands, Cas sought penance beneath the hands of another. But Dean is reluctant to touch him while he occupies this homesick state of detachment; hesitant to feel a body barely inhabited by the soul that owns it._

_He waits until Cas eventually exhausts himself, so thoroughly invested in his frantic seduction, already drained from visiting Anna. He's curled in the foetal position, angry fists clutching around the edge of the mattress, face contorted in a myriad of expressions that flicker across his fine features; Dean's peeling himself from among the sheets, searching through the pockets of Cas' coat, flung carelessly across the back of the sofa. He finds Anna's drawing nestled within the inner folds, nothing on it but the scratchy black silhouette of a man, his hands are fists, his eyes nuclear green burning through his face. In his chest, a huge cavity grows, it's creeping edges like tangled veins reaching around and through him._

_He understands now what Anna had been indicating, her furious stabbing at the page had left a map-work of creases leading him to what she had been so desperately trying to convey. Fingertips tracing them now, the journey and the destination, he's recalling her words, a list of reasons, the why's and where's of places where Cas was no longer protected. The hole growing in the chest of this tiny stick man only a mocking imitation of the empty space, vast behind Dean's own ribs in the absence of a beating heart._

_A place where Cas is no longer safe._

 

Dean doesn't know if Cas kept that drawing, referenced back to it in times where Dean would snarl at him across the coffee table; run calloused fingers along the sharp contours of his jaw and tell him he needed him; fighting and fucking and the ceasefires, few and far between. Did Cas ever think to heed Anna's cryptic advice?

Dean thinks they should have smoothed it's folds, hung it from their refrigerator gallery alongside the dog-eared, grease-stained lovers; a coincidental if not accurate representation of the polarity of their relationship. A study in half-devotion, conversations plagued by suspicion, it's inky black claws grasping intimate thoughts, intimate touches, until Dean is questioning the authenticity of Cas' struggle; watching his own palm splayed against the crown of Cas' head, fingers buried in a tangled dark mess, listening as his deep voice is muffled by mouthfuls of pillowcase, his hands scrabbling against Dean's wrist.

It had not been one of their better days.

Dean's sprawled across their bed, laptop humming it's protest, nestled among a tangle of bedsheets, perched on a haphazard stack of hardbacks. He can't say he's not pissed that Gabriel felt the need to recommend him professional help in the not-so-subtle form of a business card; lacking the delicately worded heart-to-hearts and flowery metaphors Sam preferred in these sensitive situations.

The card, he can only presume, refers to the clinic in which Anna's step-mother had confined her for treatment and he is inexplicably bitter at having his grief compared to the otherworldly ramblings of a delusional angelic radio receiver. He's typing, one-fingered, the address printed on the back, tiny silver font glinting like treasure in the dimly lit bedroom, and Sam's shitty old laptop whirrs it's protest, punctuated by a series of angry electronic beeps and clicks. Dean's soothing a palm across the keyboard, mumbling, ' _me too, buddy. Me too._ '

He's pressing his head back against the wall, eyes closed, trying to remember the sound of Cas' breathing on those rare nights when tired feet would lead him to their bed, eyes ringed in maroon-coloured exhaustion, hands trembling from coffee and nicotine and the perpetual anxiety that seemed to rattle through his bones like tremors lingering after a quake, echoes of natural disaster vibrating through his nerves.

And while Cas was so often fueled by a brutal disinterest, a sarcasm inspired by a constant state of existential crisis that made him unintentionally vicious; occasionally 3 AM would find him soft-spoken and small, lingering in the corners of the room. And Dean would know, just like he always has, the same sixth sense he's had since the day he was born; internal circuitry always seeking out Cas, always calculating the exact length between two points, a mathematical genius in equations of distance and the estimated time it would take to travel them; he'd know Cas was in the room.

He'd recognised that the space between them had never been greater.

 

_He's propping himself up on one elbow, curled fist rubbing at his eye, struggling to adjust to the darkness, relying more on something internal rather than sight to know Cas is there; the same lack of self-preservation that attracts moths to bug-zappers; he's pinpointing his silhouette among the debris of another argument._

'Everything okay?' _he's asking, voice low and broken and Cas' eyes are ethereal and staring, that manic wide-open gaze that possesses him on occasion, and Dean's preparing for a slew of lofty ideas and energetic ambition, but Cas is crawling beneath the sheets, shuffling close, his nose pressed against the warmth of Dean's shoulder, his eyes shut tight, skin pinched by the corners. His fingertips are ice, pressing against the bone of Dean's wrist, the soft skin inside his elbow, his sternum, his throat and Dean's trapping the fluttering movement within a cage of his own fingers, asking,_  'Cas?' _._

 _Cas is sighing a_ 'Can we just sleep?' _into his skin, and Dean's revelling in the apparent armistice, shuffling to rearrange them, wrapping an arm around the shelf of Cas' slumped shoulders, twirling his fingers in the dark strands curling at the nape of his neck. Cas has an arm slung lazily across his hips, fingertips playing his mute adagio against the jut of bone. An act of mutual comfort, of soft touches and low voices, a late-night truce that sees them lay down their weapons by the nightstand, passive-aggression and reverse psychology tucked away in junk drawers with dead batteries and dulled blades and a crumpled picture of a boy without a heart._

 _Cas whispers,_ 'I miss us,' _into the soft junction beneath Dean's ear, tracing ruins that Dean thinks might look like Anna's archaic symbols across the plains of his chest, spelling his regrets in dead languages so Dean cannot use them against him during their next verbal showdown. Dean's flattening a palm against the small of his back, urging him closer, drawing any trace of genuine affection he can from this close proximity, like a vampire drains a victim; he's filing it away to sustain him when it is otherwise lacking. Mumbling into the soft nest of black at the crown of Cas' head, smell of old cigarettes and whatever you call the period of time after a rainstorm; he's whispering,_  'me too,' _into his scalp._

 

Dean's reluctantly torn from his reverie by the bright flash of the search results glaring across the screen. Rather than a homepage for the clinic that had treated Anna during her final, troubled years; he finds himself instead directed to a page that seems to be still undergoing construction; offering very little information aside from a brief description of the company's projects, followed by a small bio detailing the successes of acting president Fergus Crowley. And while the man did not claim letters to follow his name, Crowley managed a team of dedicated specialists, experts in everything from bio-engineering to artificial intelligence; each and every one committed wholly to the pursuit of what Crowley jokingly referred to as,  _The Secret to Eternal Life_ ' by means of virtual recreation.

He does not overlook the Novak Industries logo stamped quiet and unassuming at the bottom corner of the screen.

Growing increasingly agitated by the late hour and Gabriel's lack of coherent instruction on what exactly he was meant to do once he arrived at this point, he finds himself frustratedly clicking rapidly around the screen, in lieu of any useful information; blindly hoping he'll accidentally stumble across some sort of link that will refer him to a help service or something.

The effort is short-lived and he's heatedly storming from the room in search of his phone, blinking away on the Formica countertop, like the north star in the vacuous dark of their apartment.

 _His_  apartment.

Standing in the entryway to the living room, Cas' absence is felt like a punch in the throat, and for a moment he can't breathe around it; hand clutching white-knuckled at the wooden frame, he takes a minute to collect himself, pointedly avoiding the corner seat where Cas would barricade himself behind a great wall of books and empty mugs. That smoky ghosts still linger in the carpets, the wallpaper, the old blanket he's thrown across his shoulders, Cas' smell woven into it's fibres, irritating him further, something he channels into his clipped conversation with Gabriel, punching the numbers into his phone with little regard for the time.

Besides, the clock above the kitchen table has stopped.

Gabriel eventually picks up, groggy and disorientated, and Dean can practically smell the daiquiris off his breath as he struggles with coordinating his mouth enough to formulate a greeting. His efforts are shut down, regardless, by Dean's barely restrained annoyance.

' _What am I meant to do on this site?_ ' he's demanding of the confused silence enduring on the line.

No formalities, no time to waste expressing faux pleasantries when the only common ground between them is Cas and the empty spaces he's left behind.

He hears a woman's voice, muffled by distance, presumably Kali, issuing a thinly veiled threat camouflaged as a soft suggestion that he should absolutely hang up the phone.  _Right now_. There's a fumbling sound, Gabriel covering the receiver, his low murmuring barely decipherable, and Dean's raising his voice, snarling ' _The site, Gabe_ ,' into his phone, fingertips pushing bruises into the skin between his brows, rubbing away the threat of an oncoming migraine. He hears the click of a door, followed by Gabriel's whisper of ' _What site?_ '

' _The site, Gabriel. The one on the card you gave me_ ,' he hears the quiet ' _oh_ ' of understanding on the other end.

' _What am I meant to be doing here?_ '

He's pulling a chair from beneath the kitchen table, unintentionally situating it to face Cas' corner of the room, an old habit from late nights spent hunched over receipts and profit margins, newspapers and résumés littered in disorganised stacks across the scarred wooden surface, and above them a black and white movie scene of Cas absorbed in his own reading, cigarette dangling, unlit and abandoned from between parted lips, his brows scrunched in concentration, bare toes curled in the seams of the sofa cushion. Dean finds his imagination incapable of recapturing the image, turning the chair away in screeching protest as Gabriel launches into his explanation, voice low and crackling.

' _It's kind of a new program. Experimental. You have to be recommended before you can actually take part. One of those rich people exclusive things._ ' And if Gabriel is issuing some thinly veiled boast, Dean doesn't bother to take offence, clearing his throat forcefully to convey how little he cares to hear this lead up.

' _Crowley. I met him a few years ago; wouldn't have happened if Naomi wasn't pumping funding into his company and inviting him to all her public events. Investing in our future, she called it. Actually, he was at mom's anniversary dinner. You might have been introduced, but y'know ... I doubt it._ '

Dean can hear the smirk, the sly reference to Cas' wandering hands and insatiable libido, how tales of their encounter with the wealthy pastel-marshmallow widower in the elevators had become a favourite of the hotel staff, who had eagerly recounted the sordid details to Gabriel at the bar the following evening. Gabriel's ' _ding ding, going down,_ ' text had not been appreciated at 4 AM, although it had brought a shy smile to Cas' face.

' _Get on with it_ ,' Dean's pressing, although the memory softens his edges, his sharp tone dulled, a fond smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Gabriel huffs out an aborted laugh, not confident nor familiar enough to predict Dean's volatile moods through the phone.

' _I already talked to him, told him who you were, who else was involved_ ,' and Dean's interrupting, genuine confusion erasing any traces of irritability, asking, ' _What do you mean 'who else'?_ ' but Gabriel's ploughing onwards, eager to return to bed. Dean can hear him shuffling from foot to foot, the tell tale chatter of his teeth, standing in the hallway, banished from the bedroom at Kali's command.

' _Just fire off an email, fill in the forms he sends you. And presto, problem solved_.'

Dean's in the middle of demanding to know just what the hell it is that 'problem solved' entails, but Gabriel's blurting out a ' _Seeya Deano_ ,' before the line goes dead. Dean's far too baffled by the exchange to indulge in his previous irritation, stuffing his phone in the pocket of his jeans, making a special effort to pad softly back towards the bedroom, as though Castiel could still be disturbed from his reading by Dean's graceless stomping on the hardwood floor.

Flinging himself across the mattress, he's yanking the laptop onto his thighs, heat burning at his skin, splayed fingers and cracked knuckles, mentally preparing himself for the awkward, forced formality of these business contacts and their required etiquette. It's been a week or two since his last foray into the office, his assistant, Garth, having eagerly occupied his position during his impromptu leave of absence; but this solemn, professional persona is one he shrugs on with the familiarity of a comfortable, old coat.

_Mr. Crowley,_

_My name is Dean Winchester. I've been referred to your site through a mutual friend. He suggested you might be able to help me, although with what, you'll have to tell me. Perhaps identifying that mutual contact might explain my lack of understanding about this situation and why it is I've been advised to message you. He mentioned something about forms and implied he'd already discussed my circumstances with you. I hope you can provide me further explanation of what it is, exactly, i'm getting myself into. I look forward to your response._

_D Winchester._

He's scouring the webpage with a fine tooth comb, searching out some form of contact information, reluctant to call Gabriel again for fear of provoking Kali's wrath, although he finds himself wondering if these late night dials stir up uncomfortable memories for them, ill-timed instances of heaving themselves from the comfort of their bed just to journey through ghost towns, empty sidewalks and shuttered windows; bundling Cas, blank-eyed and boneless, into the back of their car, hands soothing at his hair, his jaw; Kali adjusting her rear view mirror to keep a watchful eye on him over her shoulder. Gabriel shaking Dean's hand, eyes guiltily slanting towards the backseat, saying, ' _Sorry Dean. It's not his fault._ '

Eventually locating an e-mail address for Crowley, Dean's sending his message, barely skimming it once, eager to discover what it is, exactly, that Gabriel seems to think this Crowley character is able to provide by way of helping him deal with his current situation. He's only barely beginning to consider indulging himself in the Johnnie Walker Blue Rufus had sent by, conveniently overlooked during Sam's blitz of the apartment (wisely omitted for the sake of self-preservation); when he hears the message alert chime.

_Dean,_

_Been expecting your message; and while 'mutual friend' is a strong word, Gabriel has informed me that you might be interested. Heard about Cas through the grapevine, a sorry business, no doubt; but I think we'll be able to help each other out just fine._

_I doubt you're aware, we do tend to work below radar; but my associates and I are currently testing a new program, a brave new experiment in the field of artificial intelligence, and while it's still in it's trial stages, I think you could benefit._

_In order to work to it's optimum potential, we will require some personal information from you, specifically pertaining to Castiel himself; his phone number, e-mail address, letters. My team can work from there._

_Feel free to ignore this e-mail, after all, this isn't for everyone._

_I look forward to working with you, Dean._

_-C_

Too exhausted to deal with the moral ramifications of whatever it is Crowley's implying, Dean's rubbing at the knots forming above his brow. Snooping through Cas' private details is one thing, but to willingly pass along the information of the fallen Novak heir to a source of such questionable repute, particularly succeeding Cas' very public, media-dissected downfall only a few years prior; leaking any private correspondence after his death is undoubtedly in very poor taste.

Dean's slamming the laptop shut with a little more aggression than is strictly necessary, seeking an outlet for an agitation he would usually channel into needling Cas; provoking some extreme emotional response, because Cas was at his most vibrant when fighting or fucking, rings of blue neon in his eyes, fury behind his teeth. But Dean's curling in on himself like a wilting flower, confined to his side of the bed, despite the fact that there's no one left in existence who could rightfully claim the other.

His best intentions are to sleep, ignoring the siren song of the whiskey beneath the sink, but he cannot stop gauging the pros and cons of Crowley's offer, debating whether or not releasing Cas' personal contact information is wise, considering how much of his own secrets resided in those late night drunk texts, e-mails from the office, from business class lounges, from 24 hour coffee shops.

How much of their personal life existed in cyberspace? How much of themselves had they forgotten to unanswered messages and mail condemned to the junk folder? He's rubbing a palm over his face and coming to the realisation that sleep is going to be entirely impossible while this deal is sitting on the table.

Heaving himself upright, snatching at the laptop, he's reading and re-reading Crowley's response, cursor hovering over the attached files, anxiety tense in his stomach, filling his lungs. Counting to three out loud to an empty room, he's closing his eyes to brace for an impact that isn't coming, prickly heat gathering along his neckline.

The form requires Cas' e-mail address, any alternatives he may have used, his phone number; nothing Crowley hadn't mentioned before. However, the 50 additional pages of terms and conditions have him rolling his eyes to the heavens. Briefly skimming through the document provides nothing but complicated jargon and definitions that make little sense to him despite his own flare for business contracts and the legalities involved, so his impatience and creeping exhaustion conquer common sense as he fills in his own details below, ticking the essential boxes, dotting i's, crossing t's, forwarding the files back to Crowley with nothing but his signature attached.

He doesn't wait for the reply, spread eagle on the bed, counting the cracks in the ceiling, trying to recall anything of Sam's new-age preaching, the benefits of yoga and hamster-food and 'Y _our body is a temple, Dean_ ', he's saying as he's throwing another takeout bag in the trash, granola between his teeth, compost beneath his fingernails.

Trying to relax now is a futile effort, his own memories betraying him, overwhelming him with the possibilities of what exactly he had just granted Crowley access to; too late to take it back.

Specifically he's remembering a weekend from way back when.

 

_He'd spent hours roaming through some nameless airport, chrome and glass and a hundred strangers wearing the same face. Heavy snow keeps all flights grounded, announcement boards blinking red warnings and weather alerts, and his legs are restless, carrying him through empty corridors that could be hospitals or office blocks for their lack of distinction. An artificial halogen sunrise has him unable to sleep, a cacophony of children's voices and an accompaniment of soothing parental concern marks the onset of an inevitable migraine. His feet are still moving, but there's nowhere to go, haunting a modern day purgatory, a point between two extremes; him and Cas. He's wondering how Sammy voluntarily spends so much time in airports. Admittedly, he can see the appeal, the call to adventure being one that's difficult to ignore, but Jesus, at what cost?_

_He's mentally debating the merits of clicking his heels together three times, but his phone is vibrating in his pocket; a welcome distraction. He had promised to spend the weekend with Cas as compensation for what had been an unexpectedly hectic month in work, often seeing him return home late into the night; Cas too exhausted to bother dabbling in small talk or foreplay, mumbling a_  'You owe me,' _into the pillow, voice crackling with sleep, sounding like a transmission from somewhere way out in the universe, riddled with interference; the only accurate way to measure how the growing distance between them felt, conversation becoming nothing more than a shouting match with the stars._

_The picture that pops up on his screen is one of his favourites, Cas sitting on the edge of their bed, his back to the camera, wearing nothing but the sheets tangled around his waist; eyes fixed on something off-screen, his profile silhouetted by the early morning sun beaming through the slats, a halo of orange and pinks. He's mid-sentence, brows scrunched in his passion or fury, whatever devotion fuels his debate, and Dean distinctly remembers this exchange, an argument on the relevance of religious metaphors in children's cartoons. Dean had no opinions on the matter, but picking away at Cas' observations for the sake of lighting that fire behind his eyes had been reward enough in itself. The electronic shutter sound as he took the photo had made Cas shy and pliable and he remembers the aftermath favourably._

_The message doesn't bother with the_ 'I miss you's' _Dean thinks people in their situation should exchange with far more frequency than Cas has ever uttered the words. It reads more like a statement than an inquiry._ 'You're not coming home' _._

 _He's sighing his grievances to billboards for cheaper flights and sunnier states, opening up a new page to reply, reassurances on the tip of his thumb._ 'Cas, I'm sorry man, flights delayed. Won't make it out tonight.'

_Cas had left for Gabriel's the morning Dean flew out. Kali was out of town and Cas was exercising his reluctance to enjoy his own company; from the sounds of it, he'd returned home to a regrettably empty apartment._

_Expecting some passive aggressive, back-handed comment in response, a guillotine to any potential conversation, Dean finds himself pleasantly surprised at the simple,_ 'Your loss,' _reply. He can't fight the smarmy grin breaking out across his mouth, settling for sending back a simple question mark, curious to see where this rabbit hole leads._

_He's lazily thumbing through a pamphlet on inflight luggage safety when Cas' response chimes in. No text, just a photo; one that has him glancing over his shoulder, just in case._

_A tired mother peels a banana for an excitable burst of energy wearing blue ribbons and a sun-dress; a teenage boy mercilessly smashes at the buttons of some portable console, headphones hanging forgotten around his neck, blaring whatever qualifies as music to kids these days; while a young woman passionately argues the validity of packing Ugg boots for a ski trip with the disembodied voice at the other end of her call._

_He's cradling his phone closer, hand curved around the screen in some vague attempt at inconspicuousness. It's Cas' jaw, the careful diamond cut of it, chapped mouth just barely in frame; the strong column of his throat, the delicate dip of his collar bones, a dusting of bruises fading to pastels about his shoulders, each one a plea for Dean to do his worst; a hint of the soft space inside his mouth and Dean thinks it's his favourite place in the world, a wet heat he feels in his bones. He's definitely not wearing a shirt, but as for the rest, Dean can't tell._

_He swallows thickly and could swear it echoes like a bullet ricochet and everyone's staring._

'That it? C'mon man, I'm stranded,' _he's texting back, palms sweaty, heart racing and he figures there's no way to play this low-key, sitting on his duffel, head tilted back against cold metal, hopeful that maybe it could leech the pink blush from his cheeks, the bridge of his nose._

_Pigtails has lost interest in her mother's coddling, lumpy banana paste coating her tiny chubby fingers; a film of grease shining on her cheeks. She's levelling her suspect gaze on Dean; his awkward two-fingered salute doing nothing to deter her fascination._

_His phone is vibrating against his thigh, another picture, and Cas is proving himself quite the talented photographer; a hipbone, the intricate cage of his ribs; the light makes desert valleys of the dips in his skin, miles of smooth plains undisturbed by human contact and Dean is eager to ruin the illusion. Cas appears to be making a conscious effort to conceal his face, an act of self-preservation or self-persecution, but the tattoo on his hip is just as effective an identifier as those pretty eyes, the photorealistic image of a bee only slightly concealed by the folds of the bedsheets gathered beneath him._

_There's a sudden heat in his gut that has him cursing the airline, the snow and the skies that bore it._

'If I could make it home faster, trust me. I would'.

_He's studying the lines of Cas' body, tracing eyes devoutly along the rise of bone against skin, captivated in his worship when another message lights up his screen._

_He's only afforded enough time to glance at it, uttering an awestruck '_ oh my god _,' beneath his breath before the smell of banana invades his senses and pigtails is leaning into his peripheral asking, in her high-pitched chipmunk squeak, what he's looking at._

_By the time Dean arrives home, Cas is rendered useless by his own laughter, and Dean's near 24 hour long endurance boner is left untreated._

 

The thought of that personal moment between them being spread across the pages of some tacky gossip magazine; the idea of Cas' body, something he had struggled with accepting on his best days, becoming public property, a topical conversation opener, a casual, ' _Hey, did you see Castiel Novak had his nudes leaked?_ ', has Dean's skin crawling despite a flare of heat in his chest.

He does not sleep well that night.

When Crowley's response arrives, Dean has yet to remove himself from among the tangle of bedsheets, having promised himself only that morning that yes, he was willing to make his best efforts to assume the likeness of a functioning, productive member of society; but the anxiety growing like weeds in the pit of his stomach roots him to the mattress. Sandpaper eyelids scratch migraines that leave his head impossibly heavy, weighted to the pillow. Street light glare through hastily pulled curtains tell him that it's been hours since the idea of getting up and conquering the world crossed his mind, quickly defeated and buried by a dull heaviness he thinks maybe Cas would have understood.

It's another 20 minutes to summon the energy it takes to shift to his side, reaching for the laptop abandoned and shoved beneath the bed. Shuffling to prop himself against the wall, sweat-stained t-shirt bunched beneath his armpits, he's squinting against the bright glow of the screen, Crowley's message a simple, ' _Enjoy_ ' with a link posted beneath.

Angered by his own lack of capacity to achieve much with his time these days, he's clicking on the link with entirely too much force, choosing to channel his frustration into dealing with Crowley, however indirectly; mentally preparing to smugly inform him that his link didn't work. The page he is brought to is entirely blank but for a small, empty text box at the bottom.

His patience, as always, is wearing thin. He's bringing a white-knuckled fist down on the cheap plastic casing of the laptop, the hinge of the screen creaking it's protest. He's pushing the heel of his other hand into the hollow dip of his eye socket, willing away the familiar stinging sensation burning there, a welling of fire inside his head.

He runs the side of a curled fist along the keyboard; and continues to do so until he feels coherent enough to attempt any recognisable language, sending, ' _Fuck this_ ,' and ' _Crowley, you bastard_ ,' into cyberspace, text echoes springing up on-screen. He reads and re-reads, breathing harshly through his nose, teeth grit at the possibility that Gabriel's orchestrated some fucked up joke as payback for Cas and whatever secret accusations he harbours about Dean's involvement.

He's running fingers through his hair, half-moon fingernail imprints pressed against his scalp; laptop pushed aside, trying to regain control over his breathing, and he thinks he's much better than the impending panic attack, but his lungs are full of water and it's spilling from his eyes.

He's desperate now, calmer, slowly typing ' _Hello?_ ' into the blinking text box, and he thinks he might as well be a man left behind on the moon for all its futility, shouting for rescue through the empty, brilliant black at a spinning blue bead and a million deaf ears.

It's an unfamiliar bell tinkling that draws his attention, a different coloured speech bubble popping up beneath his own, encroaching on his own monologue and interrupting what read as the increasingly garbled rantings of a rapid downward spiral.

He reads and re-reads the words like God himself had dictated them, new-age tablet carvings in speech windows and chiming bells. He fights the downward curl at the corners of his mouth, his eyes welling, the breath punched from his lungs; he can't help but reach his fingertips to trace the letters, mentally reciting them in the same bored tone in which he was so comfortable hearing them said.

' _Hello Dean._ '


	4. Hannah in Hollywoodland

' _Cas?_ '

For a three-lettered word, it takes an embarrassingly long time to type, fingers fumbling and clammy, hovering above the keyboard with all the best intentions of critical precision. Ambient sound drains beneath floorboards and door-jams; air seeping from his lungs. He is occupying true silence, the only sound the click clack of the keys resonating like stray bullets in the darkness; just as lethal.

' _Yes, Dean?_ ' and Dean can't help the ugly, wet sob that rips through his body, an emotional hurricane tearing him apart at an atomic level. A combination of relief and a rarely indulged selfishness melting the steel rods in his bones, a rigid metal skeleton that anchored him, paralysed by a creeping anxiety that this hare-brained scheme of Crowley's would, inevitably, explode in his face. He believes it because it is essential for him; his craving for closure keeps him ignorant.

The avatar that accompanies Cas' responses is achingly personal, one that had been taken on his phone; and Dean's left wondering if perhaps this is Crowley's idea of sending a message; a suggestion of forgotten things uncovered; inboxes, twitter feeds; private photos stashed within innocuous collections; a gallery of insipid flowers, pretentious photos of half-empty coffee cups and yellowing, water-stained pages. Or perhaps, and maybe it is the seeping, chemical concoction of grief and paranoia killing his common sense; the picture is a thinly veiled jab, a poisoned barb courtesy of Crowley; a photographic testament to a promising beginning, the honeymoon period succeeding the 'happily ever after', something that had eventually wilted beneath the constant strain of unaddressed emotional issues and mutual difficulties with dependency.

It's a selfie, for all intents and purposes, the long stretch of Dean's inner arm visible in the lower left corner. Pupils blown like green-hued supernovas, glassy-eyed and exhausted, a wide smile on his face nevertheless. His skin is washed-out and pale, freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose distinct against the grey pallor. Cas appears a little more shell-shocked, dark hair in it's usual state of dishevelment; his eyes are dark blue depths carved in his face, a masterpiece of modern architecture; only the suggestion of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. They're in bed, stark sheets and soft skin, Cas' pillow splayed beneath his head, a starched white halo to contrast the darker shades of his skin. His hand is curled around Dean's neck, fingers tangled in dirty blonde strands at his nape; the pad of his thumb resting in the hollow dip of Dean's throat, where he would often stroke his reassurance, tap Morse code ' _I love you's_ ' when his comedowns left him mute. Dean's cheek is pressed against the top of Cas' head; and he can recall, right down to the very words, the conversation that led them to this, the where's and why's that had them looking so thoroughly wrung-out. He remembers vividly, in that instance, an overwhelming necessity to capture the evidence, proof that for one moment in time, these two people existed and they needed each other. This was how they'd survive now.

Overcome with a surge of nostalgia; a crushing, homesick sense of loss that inspires an inexplicable possessiveness, he's typing out his S.O.S.

' _Do you still love me?_ '

Cas' response is instantaneous.

' _Yes._ '

Conversation gradually becomes tainted by a sentimentality that has a weak smile pulling uncomfortably against Dean's mouth. A symphony of sirens and howling from the street below tells him the bars are shut; patrons spilling out into the avenues, a single pulsing entity of pure focused energy that bleeds down alleyways, up fire escapes; drunken jubilation and off-key harmonies of long-forgotten songs from childhood movies tell him it's getting late. He is still not ready to say his goodbye's to Cas.

Cas who asks after Sam, the tacky postcards he insists on sending, asking, ' _Have you convinced him to cut his hair yet?_ ' with a familiarity that suggests he hasn't been anywhere but curled up on the sofa with a cigarette and some pretentious paperback he picked up on the reduced shelf, only pausing every now and again to loudly announce his utter disdain for the author's portrayal of an inevitable dystopian future, saying, ' _It's always so general_ ,' on an exaggerated sigh, an accompanying over-dramatic sweep of hands. ' _The end of the world is a personal experience. Everyone's is different; a hang nail, your dog dying, the sun burning out_ ,' his voice drifts as he once more sinks into the words on the page, silence reigning momentarily as Dean watches from the kitchenette; abstract thinking, an all encompassing realisation that maybe the end of the world has blue blue eyes and a penchant for bad porn and bargain bin books. When Cas talks again, he is cautious; wild words subdued by the downturn of his eyes, the slump of his shoulders, Dean's already captivated, caught vulnerable in a cage of soft suggestion and tired eyes, his voice is heavy bass thrumming through the floorboards, vibrations resonating through Dean's bones. ' _The end of the world has a face_ ,' Cas is saying, barely audible above the sound of the ticking clock above Dean's head. ' _He has a face, and he is beautiful._ '

 

 

_Cas wakes with a start, frantic hands tearing at sheets and skin, a sheen of sweat glistening like salt and sugar dusting across the bridge of his nose. Dean doesn't remember him coming to bed. His spine is rigid, a lightning rod channelling a palpable electricity in the atmosphere, ghostly fingers trailing sharp little nails along the soft insides of Dean's arms, pushing fine needles beneath his skin, his eyes._

_Dean's leaning up on one elbow and he cannot decipher Cas' expression in the darkness, saying,_ 'Hey, You're okay,'  _his voice abrasive through layers of metal splinters and broken glass; subconsciously reaching a hand across the no man's land stretched between them, but Cas is hunkered down for war in the opposite trenches, shoving the gesture aside with an aggressive snap of movement. He's pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, elbows braced against his knees, his hair a tangled silhouette of inky black against the shades of deep blue ocean painted against his skin, he's saying to the tangled sheets between his thighs,_ 'I had a bad dream.'

 _Dean does not reach for him again; mirroring his posture, lungs burning to match his laboured breathing, he's asking,_ 'What happened?' _, quiet parts of himself eager to unravel Cas' cotton wool coat in these hours where he is not so careful to guard his words._

 _Cas moves to cradle himself, fingernails pressing half-moons into his forearms, the shift of his shoulder blades stunted wings in the dim light. Dean's counting the indents of his spine, fighting an intense urge to press his mouth to the rhythmical dip of hills and valleys where darkness pools, gathering on the surface of his skin. Cas' breath rattles through his body, fevered ache in his bones making his movements mechanical,_ 'You were there,' _and Jesus, he is fucking beautiful in an alien way. His grief leaves him detached and Dean feels an itch along the fine spirals of his fingerprints, an overwhelming desire to press reassurance against delicate porcelain bones; his ribs, his jaw, the soft skin of lips and eyelids._

'You tore me open,' _and Cas traces an invisible wound across his stomach with the tips of his fingers, eyes captivated by secrets spelled in the popcorn ceiling. He repeats the motion in a cycle, an endless loop of unfounded accusation with no basis in reality, and yet Dean finds himself annoyed at the idea; but Cas is speaking again, eyes finally tilting to examine himself, seek comfort in this tangible existence. His hands unfurling, calloused flowers of bone and tendon peeling open, he examines them with a strangers eyes, saying,_ 'And all these wires just ... fell out',  _clenching his fists, experimenting,_ 'There were circuit boards and plastic pipes,' _pressing his palms against his stomach, turning eyes to acknowledge Dean for the first time,_ 'I couldn't push them back in.'

_His hands gathering dreams, clutching at a fevered memory, he's pressing those phantom electronic organs back inside a non-existent wound, eerie echoes of whatever visions frightened him awake. When he finally drags his eyes back up to Dean's face, there is liquid blue neon looping there, deeper shades of shadow collecting beneath them, his mouth a grim pressed line, lips bloodless and pale. There's a subtle tremble to his mouth, a suggestion of restrained anger, or tears or any number of self-expressive indulgences Cas is reluctant to exhibit; consequences of his red-carpet, gold-trimmed upbringing, Dean suspects._

_He does not know how to offer him comfort, words always seem so fruitless when offered at the feet of a man who consumes them so excessively. And touch; mouths and hands and the long lines between, are often misconstrued, perverted by Cas and his near violent need to please him and Dean cannot face the idea of damaging him further._

'I wasn't real,' _he's saying, voice soft and eyes glassy, searching Dean's expression for something not readily available; his brows creasing, eyes pinched tight at the corners,_ 'I wasn't a real person.'

 _And later with the soft light of morning cutting through cracks in curtains and beneath doors, Cas is soft for lack of sleep, his mouth pink and swollen from butterfly kisses that grew insistent, Dean's thumb circling his lips in soothing swirls. Cas' hand has crept from hip, to stomach, to chest, to shoulder, to collar bone, settling to curl around the back of Dean's neck, touching skin like it sears his nerve endings, leaving trails of lightning, pin-pricks of pure light scorched into a stretch of pale, soft canvas; residual traces of whatever it is that flares up behind Cas' eyes in these scattered moments of vulnerability. Dean starts to ask, mouth slow to shape syllables, saying,_ 'Do you-' _and Cas is nodding his response, lip catching against the rough skin of Dean's thumb, peeling back from teeth and gums and the inside of his mouth is soft and wet and sets aches in the pit of Dean's stomach. He's reaching behind him, palm groping out along the surface of the bedside cabinet, and it's not much, but it's enough to maybe set Cas' mind at ease, a statement that contradicts these night-time fears that keep him soaked in coffee and cigarette smoke. It says, you're real and I need you. Dean says, holding his phone at arms length them,_ 'I should get a picture.'

 

 

Hannah's sitting across from him, Cas' books stacked tall and precarious all around her, the paper peaks to the Novak throne; his kingdom of printed words and disposable people, his fingerprints pressed in ash between the pages. Her face is a porcelain mask, untouched by tragedy; the stoic, practised cold of the Novak persona. It's her hands that betray her, a delicate folding unfolding repetition occurring across her knees; pale, delicate fingers fluttering and anxious, a conduit for whatever she clenches behind her teeth, a practised, tight grimace masquerading as an approachable smile stretching her mouth to bizarre proportions.

A folder thick with pristine pages rests by her thigh; she intentionally does not touch it, reluctant to draw his attention, but he is entirely too focused with studying her face; wondering aloud how he ever mistook her as anything but a Novak, ' _Your eyes are similar, y'know_ ,' he says, only realising after the fact, that in referring to Cas, he subconsciously gestures towards their shared bedroom. He folds his hands carefully into the pockets of his jeans, betrayed; carefully avoiding the melting ice of Hannah's stare, the curious tilt of her head; a knock-off mimicry of Cas and all his fascinating little habits, a bargain-bin imitation of masterpieces; renaissance oils of virgins and angels; a cathedral ceiling to a 10 cent postcard.

Hannah had dropped by that morning, hard board folders clutched to her chest, a plastic wrapped bowl resting against the jut of her hip; a creeping frown across her features; eyes a watercolour-wash tribute to Cas' own. She does not offer any context for her visit, eyes down-turned as she manoeuvres her way around him, filling the doorway with slumped shoulders and dragging knuckles.

The harbinger of bad news wears comfortable shoes, thick bangs and a smile thinner than her patience.

' _I'm sorry about this, Dean_ ,' she's saying, delicately sifting through the sheets in her file, fingers fluttering pale and frantic, a moth's wings beating between the pages. Her voice does not suggest apology; rehearsed lines rolling from her tongue easily, and it's not intentionally unkind; she is, as always, a practised professional, familial concerns aside. He's watching her from across a barricade of scarred Formica, the tight press of her mouth, a single-minded dedication to the task at hand; Dean recognises her as beautiful, although he is pushed to decipher whether it is a merit earned independently, or due to her striking similarities to Castiel.

He sees the dish, abandoned by the drainage board, condensation gathering beneath in wide, wet circles, he's saying, ' _What's with the bowl?_ ', she only pauses a beat, glancing up from her work to eye him critically, ' _I've been informed it is customary to bring food as a means of comfort_ ,' she says simply, the bare bones of explanation, Hannah was not one to dress her words with decorative weight of implied emotional investment.

Pressing a wad of paper into his clumsy hands, against his chest, she's saying, ' _Three bean surprise_ ,' picking her way around stacked monuments of faded ink and wood pulp; taking her seat upon Castiel's throne, a crown of dust motes and stagnant air resting among her dark curls. She is statuesque, her posture a product of Swiss finishing schools and rapped knuckles, hands curling demure across her stomach and she cannot stake claim on this kingdom; she, a solid sculpt of glittering ice; ethereal and unfeeling, while Cas was liquid and seeping; mercury soaking between the cracks, making his home curled in the knots of wood, beading between the threadbare fabric of sofa's and bedsheets, the spaces between Dean's fingers.

She's eyeing the clock hanging useless and mute above the kitchen table, ' _A suppression order_ ,' she says, nodding briefly at the papers he clutches to his chest. ' _Your clock has stopped._ '

Hannah occupied a role Dean would dubiously describe as 'publicist', her specialities in damage control; smothering stories and big-name journalists suddenly and suspiciously finding themselves without employment. Many a Saturday morning, in the beginning, would see her haunting their doorstep, glossy magazines and huge, crinkled newspaper spreads clutched in her tight, white-knuckled grip, a pen twisted in the dark, slick ribbons of her hair. While Hannah's face of carved marble often made it difficult to deduce the nuances of emotional expression, her eyes were ethanol fire, a brilliant blue flare; her voice riddled with earthquake tremors, aftershocks rumbling through her joints, she's saying, ' _Really?_ ' peeling some gossip tabloid from her arsenal and thrusting it in his face, asking, ' _Do you not listen?_ ' And the cover is always familiar, so strange to see himself from these voyeuristic angles, an out-of-body experience heralded by a symphony of clicking camera shutters, Cas whispering low in his ear saying, ' _Make it count_ ,' wet mouth on his pulse, hands frantic on the zipper of his jeans.

' _A gag order_ ,' Dean's repeating, testing the shape of the words in his mouth, eyes sent in spirals by the intricate loops and curls of Naomi Novak's signature, his fingers are damp against the paper, leave wrinkled prints pressed into the surface.

' _Naomi feels, in wake of this recent tragedy, it would be-_ ,' and she pauses, searching for an accurate word, formal and robotic, Naomi's words through a reluctant mouthpiece, ' _-best, if you were to refrain from discussing with anyone the nature of your relationship with Castiel_.'

Dean's pinning the documents to the fridge, a battered plastic replica of Wile E. Coyote's face holding them in place; an ironic, jovial contrast to Naomi's love letter, an excess of legal jargon and aggressive insistence. Hannah is tracing a manicured nail along the water-curled edges of a Jack Kerouac pried from beneath the sofa cushions; its cheap, paper cover long stripped from it's mildewed pages by Cas' persistent, nervous fingers. ' _It's quiet here_ ,' she says, addressing Cas' signature, a mess of spiders' legs and prom queen lashes, delicately etched along the cracked spine.

 

 

_Hannah had served as witness to many an argument barely contained by these four walls. Her black and white stripes serving as her blindfold; A Themis overlooking their affairs from the metaphorical high-road. Lady Justice and her double-edged blade, an agent of law and vengeance, serving from beneath the tyrannical press of Naomi Novak's thumb. Pursuing Castiel through the book shelves and melting clocks, down the rabbit hole, further still beyond the crystal-riddled club-boys, shimmering skin and pitfalls for eyes, rotting teeth of yellow and brown, popcorn kernels framing a jumble of indirect answers and tired riddles; The trophy wives and divorcées, hiding away in towering palaces sprawling beyond the Hollywood hills, velvet and Chanel, croquet and white rose gardens, their mock turtle's song of a boy with dreamy eyes and a penchant for the melancholy._

_The caterpillar says his name is 'Ash', perched cross-legged atop of field of soft green felt and the blooms of beer stain poppies. The whites of his eyes pink-flecked marble beneath the flickering lights, saying,_ 'You're looking for Dean Winchester's place,' _scratching an address onto the back of an old match-book, the logo for 'Harvelle's Roadhouse' a faded red thumbprint smear on the cover. A dime-store Alice climbs from beneath the bar, a glass bottle lament rattling in her wake; no primrose garden to sing her praises. Torn denim and dishwater stained apron, blonde hair piled atop her head in golden-thread bundles; her face is creased in agitation, dirty rag curled tight in a rubber sunshine-coloured fist. She makes her approach under the guise of gathering Ash's vast collection of empty bottles, crowding around him like an eager audience._ 'You looking for Cas?' _she asks in the tones of someone striving for off-handed and casual, clockwork ticking loudly in her head; doesn't bother with eye contact; subtle as a car crash. Ash is snorting into a bottle, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his mouth._ 'Attached at the hip, those two,' _he says, by way of explanation, a vague gesture with the butt of a bottle,_ 'A regular Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dom'.

_The first time she encounters Dean Winchester, she is quick to reconsider Ash's previous jab. Nothing vaguely reminiscent of the bumbling slapstick she had been expecting; they are more a lion and a unicorn; knights across a chessboard battlefield; Castiel in graceful white, Dean in violent red. A relationship built on ego and a twisted sense of mutual worship. Castiel is gin-soaked and agitated, white-knuckled after five-rounds of ruthless verbal back and forth. Dean's got tired eyes and an angry stretch of red burning across his cheekbone, and if it's hand-shaped, she pretends not to notice._

_Cas is quick to associate her sudden reappearance with Naomi's omnipresent influence, distancing himself through his preferred methods of self-inflicted isolation; the slamming of the bedroom door a barrier of reassurance between himself and a past life._

_Priding herself on her observational prowess, it is no easy feat to ignore the defeated slump of Dean's posture, the smears of coal beneath bloodshot eyes, the hesitant way he opens his mouth to address the empty space left in Cas' wake; a world-weary tolerance in which she uncovers traces of that devotion, beneath the layers of amateur dramatics; passionate nights chased by violent mornings, the bruise coloured fingerprints they leave, compulsive evidence on throats and wrists, at the corners of mouths; she thinks maybe there's threads of something genuine holding this wreck together._

_The first words Dean Winchester ever says to her, head bowed in remorse, fingernails picking anxiously at a patch of flaking skin behind his ear,_ 'I'm sorry.' _And she does not know whether it is an offering on his own behalf or an attempted coverall for Cas' temper; but curiosity has a tendency to force aside any observation of social etiquette._

 _She does not look at him, prompting,_ 'for what?', _her fingertip tracing spirals into the worn, old hardback bible Cas preferred to use as a coaster; it's ancient covering looped with perfect circles of wine reds and tequila sunsets. And Dean sees in her traces of Cas, the things he's drawn too, a collection of words unspoken but meanings heavily implied._ 'For, you'know .. ,' _and she looks up, face a stoic portrait of ice chips and storm clouds, a suspicious scrunch to her brow that demands explanation._  'For us,' _he shrugs, eyes drifting to the butter-yellow slice of light leaking beneath the bedroom floor, cutting geometry into the carpets._ 'I'm sorry for us.'

 

 

And now she thinks she truly is sorry for him; wearing echoes of Castiel's own dishevelment; adaptive camouflage, coffee stains and grease spots, denim a tapestry of fraying threads and black oil flecks. He's hunched over a battered kettle, waiting with a single minded devotion for water to boil. She does not have the heart to point out that he has yet to plug it in. His fingers tap a violent pulse against the worktops, his t-shirt unravelling along the bottom hem, Ariadne's thread trailing behind him, spiralling around their labyrinth apartment. He has not quite found it's exit.

In the hallway their bedroom door hangs open, curtains half pulled from the rail; late-night episodes of aggression and loss manifesting in shattered ashtrays and torn upholstery. And she cannot discern whether the poltergeist makes it's home within these four walls, or deeper still, within Dean Winchester's head.

He touches his fingers to the pages tacked to the refrigerator, a reminder to himself, or perhaps a gesture of disbelief in their intention; but he's smirking into an empty coffee cup and carding his fingers through a dirty blonde bird's nest, red thread unfurling behind him as he stalks the enclosed space; the trailing tail of a comet on a collision course.

' _I'm sorry_ ,' she says, voiced raised like she's arguing back against an unrelenting silence, something vacuous bleeding from his pores and flooding the space around them. He's asking, ' _Coffee?_ ' by way of response, and maybe his eyes soften slightly, maybe his shoulders relax, lines of rigid tension melting from the muscles in his neck. ' _Sure_ ,' stashing her files and documents away from sight, guilty for their presence here, tucking them beneath the folds of her coat; a rare display of remorse for the reminder of formal organisation and the stone-faced business they represent; Hannah herself a personification of such, facing off against Dean Winchester's destructive display of loss; a disassociation with the here and now.

An emotional tempest and the mountain it's trying to move.

He moves slow and lumbering, shifting around the kitchenette like he's entirely unfamiliar; misjudging the distance between objects, miscounting steps from sink to cupboard, clumsy and uncoordinated; uncomfortable, suddenly, in this space alone, at a loss without Cas to balance him.

She watches him take two tumblers from a top shelf, distractedly curling his hand into his sleeve and swiping the fabric around the rim. ' _Did you kill him?_ ' he says, his tone entirely too flat and disinterested for the question, doesn't even deign to look at her, rummaging through bottom cupboards, the clink of glassware and half-empty bottles a chorus of crickets to the silence that unfolds messily between them.

' _Of course not_ ,' it's a conscious effort not to wring her knuckles, pressing half moons into her palms, fists curled deep in the pockets of her coat, ' _How could you even think-_ ,' but he's cutting her off, pressing a glass of liquid gold against her chest under some unspoken threat that he has every intention of ruining her Dior should she not consent to take white-knuckled fists from her side and join him in his misery.

' _Then what are you sorry for?_ ' entirely rhetorical, but her analytical mind can't help but formulate responses.

I'm sorry for the legal ramifications of the Novak family losing an heir.

I'm sorry Cas was unable to untangle himself from his issues and disappoint Naomi by reinventing himself.

I'm sorry that he met you.

I'm sorry that you fell into this awful routine and called it 'love'.

I'm sorry he's gone.

Instead, what she says, fingers delicately tracing the lip of her glass, ' _There's a chip in this_ ,' doesn't bother to remind him of her distaste for alcohol, fails to point out that this is not, in fact, the coffee she had requested.

He moves mechanically, an absentee to his own existence, taking her glass to pour the glittering contents down the drain, barely rinsing it out before once again placing it on the shelf above him.

' _Why don't you just throw it out?_ ' she asks, and in an apartment full of hand me downs and second hand experiences, bargain-bin books and broken clocks, smashed ashtrays gathering like a lethal snowfall on carpets the colour of the 70s, she cannot fathom why he fails to throw out a chipped glass, or why she finds herself fixated by the object or the red flags it raises. He shrugs, his own glass empty, ' _Call me sentimental_ ,' and if he's being sarcastic, it's hard to know; wrapped up in an Oscar-worthy brand of perverse irony he's been practising since the accident, flexing his newfound acerbic wit in verbally hazardous encounters with concerned family members and well-wishing strangers alike. ' _But I just can't throw anything away_.'

And whether it's a glass or a lover, she recognises an honesty in his statement; gathering up her paperwork and straightening out her hair, moving to leave, to flee and condemn him to his self-made seventh circle, glancing once over her shoulder to see him silhouetted by the afternoon beating against the blinds, a hero and his sunset.

' _I'm not sorry_ ,' she re-evaluates, shifting her stack of records and reports to her hip. Her eyes pinched at the corners, a frown not dissimilar to one Dean found himself often inspiring across Cas' features. ' _I pity you, Dean Winchester._ '

A haphazard tower of paperbacks topples across the rug with the force of the door slamming in her wake.

 

 

' _Hannah called by earlier_ ,' he types, sprawled across the sofa, a stack of yellowing pages propped beneath his head. He's fighting back the butterflies and hurricanes beating inside his chest at the simple sight of the ellipsis indicating Cas' typing on the opposite end.

Cas and Hannah had shared a sibling-like relationship, corrupted as it was by their tumultuous upbringing; describing each other as such in numerous magazine interviews. Media darlings in their teens with their similar features; the practised polite etiquette of the white-upper-class; rigid and detached; a high-fashion lack of emotional involvement, and they both modelled it so beautifully. A photographer's wet dream.

But as with most siblings, they proved utterly devoted in their efforts to sabotage each other at any given opportunity; Cas with a bruised mouth and torn shirt at Hannah's wedding after luring her husband-to-be to the back room and dutifully falling to his knees; all while her bridesmaids fussed about the flowers woven through her curls, the fall of chiffon by her ankles.

Hannah's retaliation had been vicious; subtle, in that Cas had discovered her revenge in the much same way as the general population; a 'breaking news' banner on TMZ boasting a copy of the psych evaluation that ultimately saw Castiel Novak discharged from his very brief stint serving in the military. The Novak's did nothing by halves.

' _Does she miss me?_ ' comes the response, and Dean stifles a laugh, almost hearing the deadpan execution with which Cas would have asked the question had he been sitting beside him; the roll of eyes, the curl at the corner of his mouth. ' _It's hard to tell_ ,' he answers, barely pausing to attempt puzzling out Hannah's frequently cryptic statements, her often unaffected delivery making it difficult to determine.

' _And Jo?_ ' Cas is asking, and Dean revels in these small inquiries, finds himself more invested in the lie for it's seemingly genuine responses.

' _She calls sometimes. She knows what it meant_ ,'. And 'it', in this context, could mean a multitude of things, but Dean his hoping that clarity is not beyond the comprehension of the machine indulging him. 'It' means them; Cas, the accident, a growing list of characters and concepts listed under 'the things I love' a Venn diagram overlapping 'the things that ruined my life'.

Cas had only encountered Jo once or twice; way back in the honeymoon era, just after the happily ever after, a few months before the beginning of the end; a point at which inviting close friends into their personal space didn't seem like an open invitation for silent judgement and callous critique on the suspect nature of their relationship.

Cas had been perched in his usual spot, legs curled beneath him, his eyes bleary with alcohol, a faint red tinge across the bridge of his nose, an unguarded smile spreading out across his whiskey-stained mouth. Jo had been sprawled across the sofa, bare feet balanced on Cas' knee, her toenails a myriad of rainbow colours, Cas' old bible resting upright on her chest, a line of empty shot glasses overturned on the coffee table in front of them. She would dramatically flick through the pages, her eyes squeezed shut, her head tilted to the ceiling in a melodramatic display of over-exaggeration, before suddenly stopping, jabbing her finger between the pages, nail tapping beneath a wall of text, eyes squinted half closed in the effort of reading the passage, dictated aloud to Cas. And while they never bothered to invite Dean in on their little game, nor explain the convoluted rules they seem to have created; from what he could gather, if Cas could recite the verse from memory quicker than Jo could read from the page, she would have to take a shot, otherwise, Cas was the one knocking back whatever it was, exactly, they were drinking. It had been, what Cas would later define as, 'a moment'. He had been fond of her ever since.

Cas' text box is blinking once more. ' _Have you spoken to Balthazar?_ '

And Dean can't recall ever encountering someone by that name, aware that if he had, it certainly wouldn't be a name he would have so easily forgotten. Cas had rarely, if ever, spoken out about his brief stint in the military; a period of his life Dean had attempted to puzzle out, following a trail of breadcrumbs; cob-web covered photos forgotten in attics, a string of cryptic comments and ambiguous statements in interviews, a sweat-soaked verbal outpouring following the latest vivid nightmare, the distinctive limp Cas developed as a result of his unexplained injury, the cross-hatch of scar tissue shining intricate white lace against the tan skin of his calf, the same TMZ report Hannah had staged as a means of revenge against her 'sibling'.

He is quick to presume the name a relic of that point in Cas' confused past, a phantom brought to life by whatever Crowley was able to extract from old e-mails and blurry phone photography. A memory reanimated by a reanimated memory.

' _Who's Balthazar?_ '

And maybe this is an opportunity for learning, to unravel more of Cas' history, but as his flesh-and-blood counterpart often would, this cyber recreation also seems reluctant to divulge any more information, his line remaining silent for an unusual amount of time.

When he does respond, it is to inquire as to just how much Dean misses him. And Dean can't formulate the depth of his feelings, not specific to loss which does not seem an accurate descriptor in this context. How can he experience and overcome his so-called grief with Cas still so accessible, more so now than while he was a tangible thing; sex and physicality no longer an obstacle to communication. He does not miss him, he is still a presence, still occupying his life. But he does need him, still craves something lacking; an eerie echo of their life from before. The concept of loving a ghost.

' _I need you_ ,' he summarises, frustrated with his inability to formulate the things that keep him awake at night; urges that convince him to hang Cas' old trench-coat over the back of the sofa where he would spend his waking hours wrapped in a fictional dream world. The same itch that possesses him to build and rebuild Cas' paper towers; monuments erected in his honour, books stacked like gravestones, his name carved into their spines. He's rubbing at his eyes, the chapped skin of his lips, the two-day growth of coarse hair across his jawline. So distracted by Hurricane Cas, he almost misses the response.

' _There is a way we can be together again._ '


End file.
